The Lazarus Particle

by Logan Thomas Snyder

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir. I have to admit I was a bit surprised when you called me up.”

  Orth laughed softly. “Well, you give me so little reason to visit your department, Captain. Still, the pleasure is all mine,” he said, releasing her hand and gesturing for her to sit. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Sir.”

  Orth gestured to the bottle still sitting atop his desk. “Tell me, Captain Bynes, have you ever had the pleasure of a fine Belatrozin rum?” Producing a fresh tumbler from within his desk, he took up the bottle.

  Captain Bynes’ eyes dilated just so as she watched him pour. “I can’t say that I have, sir, no. We’re mostly all about the home brew down in engineering.” She smiled sheepishly, ducking her head just so. “I can’t believe I just said that. Sir, allow me to explain—”

  Smiling, Orth waved her concern away like a troublesome fly. “Please, Captain, what your people do on their downtime is no concern of mine. True, home brew is technically against protocol, but I’ve seen no evidence to indicate any of your people bring their extracurricular activities to work with them. You run a tight department; you are to be commended for it.” He smiled, inclining his head to the tumbler nearest her. “Now, please, relax, and share a drink with your commander. That’s an order.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” she answer quickly, reaching for the tumbler. “That’s the easiest order I’ll ever have to follow.”

  “Knolan.”

  Bynes froze mid-reach. “Pardon, sir?”

  “You may feel free to call me Knolan, Ngaya. We’re off-book here.”

  “I…” Bynes smiled nervously. “I’m not entirely sure I feel comfortable with that, sir.”

  “Fair enough. Still, a drink.” He gestured a second time to the tumbler she was still grasping for.

  “Of course.” She took the glass, regarding it almost reverently. No doubt she was aware that splash of liquor was worth nearly a month of her annual salary.

  “To unexpected opportunities,” Orth offered by way of a toast.

  “As you say, sir.” Bynes clinked the edge of her glass against his. She didn’t exactly throw it back, but still took an impressively large swallow of the strong, dark rum.

  She inhaled sharply after her first taste of rum, seemingly speechless in its wake.

  “What does it remind you of?” Orth prompted curiously. “First impression. Don’t think about it.”

  “Like… like the first time I came home from a long deployment. That first breath of pure, natural, unreclaimed air.” She opened her eyes, smiling and looking into the remnants of the glass. “It’s incredible, sir. I’m honored you would share this with me of all people. What I don’t understand is… why?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Garrity has been relieved of duty following the recent breaches in security,” Orth said, coming straight to the point.

  “Oh, my. Sir, that’s not going to go over well.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Sir? I don’t…” Her jaw all but dropped right off her face as Orth placed a set of lieutenant commanders collar insignia before her. “Oh, my,” she said again. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”

  “Based on rank and seniority, you’re next in line. Your jacket and psych eval suggest you have a knack for leadership, and as I said, the way you’ve run your department…” He spread his hands as if to frame a wide array of irrefutable evidence. “You are far and away the best candidate.”

  “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  Orth nodded encouragingly toward the pips. “I think you know exactly what to say.”

  Bynes looked from Orth’s eyes to the tumbler, the insignia, then back again. He could practically see her calculating her options, deciding he was right. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. “Yes, sir. I accept.”

  “Outstanding,” he said, quite sincerely. “Outstanding.” He slapped his desk softly, then stood and took the pips. “Let’s make this official, then.”

  “So, that’s it?” she asked after he had traded out one set of insignia for another.

  “More or less. You’ll receive a commensurate bump in compensation, of course, as well as increased access to benefits and leave time. Oh, there is one other matter, though.” Looking up into the ether, he said, “Confirm transfer of secondary authority, Harland Garrity, decommissioned, to Ngaya Bynes, promoted, Lieutenant Commander, Morgenthau-Hale Orbital Station Tau.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Ngaya Bynes, please confirm voice print against Captain Ngaya Bynes.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Ngaya Bynes, confirming.”

  “Voice print confirmed. Ngaya Bynes upgraded to secondary authority status.”

  Orth looked to his new executive officer for any signs he might have overreached in his selection. He couldn’t find any evidence. Still, the question had to be asked. “Any lingering questions? Concerns?”

  “When do I report?”

  Orth smiled just so. It was the only acceptable answer. “Take a day. No doubt your people in engineering will want to throw you a sending off party. In fact, give them all the day. I’ll reassign nonessential personnel and call in some of the reserves to help fill out whatever gaps remain. We’ll make it work.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and take this, too,” he said, pushing the bottle of Belatrozin rum into her hands.

  “Sir, I couldn’t possibly—”

  “You can and you will. Make sure every man and woman on your crew gets a taste of the good stuff. Let them know their commanders have the most enduring and utmost respect for the work they perform day in and day out.”

  Bynes’ chest swelled with obvious pride. “Yes, sir. Said and done.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  Alone again, Commander Orth sank into his chair with a graceless thump. He’d been awake nearly forty-eight hours straight, give or take. He had to rest some time. Knowing he had no other immediate business to attend to, he set sleep mode for six hours and turned in.

  He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow at the end of his rack.

  Normally Knolan Orth slept soundly even without the standard medical-issued cocktail of sleep aids some chose over true, recuperative sleep. He was a man, like most military men and women, who had witnessed horrors untold and suffered losses both personal and professional, yet even at this late stage of his career he remained capable of compartmentalizing duty from fixation. Where the former was full of various actions and confirmed kills, the latter was a vacuum. Yin and yang, balance and counterbalance. He slept the sleep of the dead, in spite of the knowledge he would soon have to answer to the next day and whatever it saw fit to bring.

  For what seemed a long spell, he dreamed of himself and Garrity. More remembered than dreamed, really. Their younger years. So many flights together, so many actions; so many close scrapes! And then the two of them afterward, chasing drinks and girls and feeling ten ways of blessed to be alive and brothers on each other’s wing…

  A klaxon pierced the silence. It shredded his dream state like tissue paper, bringing him upright immediately. “Sitrep,” he demanded, already swinging his legs over the rack.

  “Commander, sir,” the familiar voice came back via the comm. “This is Cap—that is, Lieutenant Commander Bynes. I’ve assumed command in your absence but I’m afraid I’m out of my element, sir. We’re reading multiple contacts, dozens and dozens… god, they just keep coming and coming… sir, what do I—”

  “Snap out of it, Bynes!” Orth was already in his uniform and out the door of his quarters. His feet pounded a withering crescendo down the corridor behind him as he legged it for the nearest evacuation pad. “We have no chance against an enemy armada! Order a general evacuation and initiate a secure download of the station’s servers, now!”

  The klaxon seemed somehow to scream out even more desperately at the sound of his words, leaving no doubt as to the fate of the station.
The first vague rumblings only served to punctuate the urgency of the situation.

  “Attention!” the voice of Orth’s new executive officer rang out through the station via the public address. He noted, somewhat absently, the change in her tone. Moments earlier it had been desperate, uncertain. Now it was tight and rigid, singing with command and authority like a hammer upon iron. “This is Lieutenant Commander Ngaya Bynes, declaring a general evacuation for all civilians and station personnel. This is not a drill, repeat, not a drill…”

  “What price, indeed,” Orth murmured as the wail of the klaxons chased him down the corridor.

  Orth careened around the last corridor to the escape pad nearest his quarters only to find the airlock doors closing with a pneumatic hiss. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, shouting “Hold!” as loudly as he possibly could against the hiss of venting gas and the shrill cry of the klaxon. “HOLD!”

  Through the tempered glass of the airlock, Orth saw a silhouette swivel in place. Hands cupped against the window, the vaguest hint of eyes peering out between them. Then the silhouette disappeared. For a moment, Orth was certain the shuttle would follow any moment.

  The doors, only inches from closing, suddenly reversed course.

  Orth was almost there. Just a few more quick strides.

  A massive blast rocked the corridor all around him, the first of such an intense magnitude. The blast threw him against the bulkhead, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  There was precious little time left, he knew.

  Regaining his footing, Orth sprinted for the airlock. He reached it just as the doors had opened far enough to allow him to plow through sidelong, his shoulder leading the way. Two young officers caught him, their collective grasps acting like a net to slow his forward momentum. “Commander on deck!” one of them shouted to the front of the shuttle. The copilot acknowledged. Bidding the airlock to close once more, he abdicated his seat without having to be asked.

  “Commander,” he said as he reassigned himself to the cockpit’s aft station.

  “Damn good to have you aboard, sir,” the second of the young officers said as they released him.

  “Everybody strap in!” their pilot hollered back. “You, too, sir. Can’t have you bouncing around back there while we’re making our break.”

  Orth did as he was told. It was a cardinal rule among airmen that regardless of rank, the pilot was the de facto commanding officer when he or she was at the helm. “Good to go.”

  There was a slight quiver as the pilot unlocked the shuttle. Moments later an abrupt and almost bone-rattling lurching threw them hard against their seat backs. Under any other circumstance, such a premature, reckless burn would be cause for reprimand, if not worse. Considering they were abandoning Orbital Station Tau under a torrent of withering fire, Orth could hardly fault the pilot his impatience.

  Even as they and several other pods vectored away from the station, the invading fleet remained intent on pummeling it with everything they had to offer. Orth watched, unable to look away as one explosive impact followed the next.

  Within minutes, the station he had commanded and called home for so long was transformed into a glowing orange and red fireball.

  Just like a supernova, he thought as all consciousness narrowed to a pinpoint and they were catapulted into empty space.

  26 • CLANSTRIKE

  “… Repeat, this is Kerikeshaala Flagship broadcasting a clans-wide call of distress and imminent destruction.” The dispatcher had neglected to identify himself, but the authentication codes matched. He spoke so quickly his words seemed to crash one atop the next, a stream of panic so broad and deep the Zj knew it was no hoax. “We are presently the target of a Morgenthau-Hale vessel in possession of a high-yield nuclear device. Our targeting solutions have proven ineffectual against the incoming vessel, though our sensors have identified it as originating from Orbital Station Tau in the Tilghman Sector. We do not have much time, however we believe—”

  With that, the transmission ceased.

  In its place, the hiss of empty static prevailed.

  “We have lost communications, my Zj,” the helmsman said quietly.

  Ndeeldavono: Zj Soliorana could hardly believe his ears.

  An entire clan. Gone.

  Extinct.

  How could it possibly be?

  It was unprecedented. Completely and utterly unprecedented.

  And not just any clan. The Kerikeshaala line. Forever extinguished.

  There would have been no question as to their combined preeminence had they been able to unite their clans as planned. The weight of such a union—to say nothing of their fleets—would have compelled even the most formidable of potential challengers to kneel before them.

  Now, that would never be.

  The Tyroshi did not mourn so much as seethe. Yet even so, Zj Soliorana felt a need to distance himself. To reflect and consider. He excused himself from the command module of his flagship without so much as a word. His second assumed command seamlessly. The fleet was in able hands, he knew. Lj Rejvollori would keep everyone on task while he considered how best to respond to what amounted to no less than a declaration of war on behalf of Morgenthau-Hale.

  Perhaps that was what puzzled him most. Certainly the Tyroshi and Morgenthau-Hale were not allies, but they were hardly enemies either. There had been the occasional small skirmishes over the years—some mere misunderstandings; others not so much—but to ambush an entire clan simply made no sense. That they would apparently ally with the Free Planetary Irregulars, who loathed and were equally loathed in turn by Morgenthau-Hale (at least so far as he knew), made even less sense.

  Still, whatever the reason, whatever the manufactured justification, there was only one conceivable response.

  “Lj Rejvollori,” he said as he resumed command, his voice measured but powerful. “Signal a fleet-wide alert to set course for the Tilghman Sector.”

  “Sir.” Lj Rejvollori snapped to task quickly, stalking from one end of the command module to the next and back again as he spurred the helmsmen and various station chiefs to action. The young Lj was proving himself a fine addition to Soliorana’s command staff. If the nature of his vengeance didn’t require such a personal stake, he would have considered giving Rejvollori further opportunity to prove himself by commanding part of the retaliation.

  But of course that was out of the question.

  Perhaps some of the after-action clean-up, though.

  Yes, that would be a suitable test of Rejvollori’s abilities.

  “Ready to launch, my Zj,” the young Lj informed him. “On your order.”

  Zj Soliorana smiled grimly. To battle, then. “Launch.”

  Lurching into the Tilghman Sector abruptly, the helmsmen dialed in an approach that would give them maximum coverage for their targeting solutions in the shortest amount of time. No doubt some station personnel would still manage to escape, but that was unavoidable. Besides, what was the point of a crippling ambush if no one survived to fearfully report it?

  “Receiving a transmission from Orbital Station Tau, my Zj,” one of the helmsman reported. “Audio only.”

  “Patch it through.”

  “Unidentified fleet,” the transmission began, “you have unwisely trespassed into the sovereign corporate space of Morgenthau-Hale. Per corporate courtesy, you will be given ten standard minutes to reverse course and make most haste to exit said space before your incursion is met with an armed response. Please respond to verify receipt of these instructions, over.”

  Zj Soliorana smiled. He allowed several seconds to tick by until the comm sounded again.

  “This is Orbital Station Tau to unidentified fleet, requesting receipt of instructions to remove yourselves from Morgenthau-Hale corporate space, over.”

  “Fix firing solutions,” Zj Soliorana ordered. “Target the communications array first.”

  “Orbital Station Tau to invading armada, we now know you to be of Tyroshi origin. We are also aware v
ia our sensors that you are fixing firing solutions upon our facility. We feel compelled to warn you that if you fire upon this facility in any fashion, we will respond in kind. Repeat, if you fire upon this facility in any fashion, we will respond in kind, over.”

  “Targeting solutions fixed, my Zj.”

  Zj Soliorana narrowed his eyes. “You may fire when ready. Only the station itself. Not the escaping vessels.”

  “Zj?”

  “You have your orders.”

  “Yes, Zj! Beginning bombardment of communications array…”

  “Receiving fire from the station,” another voice reported seconds before the first vague trembles whispered through the flagship. Impact.

  “Evasive maneuvers,” he replied coolly. “Continue prioritizing fire against the communications array. Instruct the rest of the fleet to fix firing solutions on the station’s weapons systems.”

  “Understood.”

  As the first of several coordinated salvos angled in upon the station, the flagship’s projection hub bloomed brightly with the colors of death and destruction. Zj Soliorana reveled in the splendor of it. He imagined Tj Yeleyhi in the Aftermire, silently approving of each and every precision strike that shredded the station in memory of her honor. Meanwhile, swarms of escape pods continued to flee from their host. That much he could not help. Nor did he want to.

  There needed to be survivors. Witnesses.

  “Communications array down, Zj.”

  “Fix solutions upon the station itself. Aim for the reactor signature. No doubt it will be at the heart of the facility.”

  “Signature already established, my Zj. Fixing solutions now…”

  Zj Soliorana watched as his fleet unleashed the entire force of its arsenal upon Orbital Station Tau, their ordnance vectoring in savagely. An atavistic sneer spread slowly across his face as he beheld the destruction of the station one spectacular explosion at a time. The communications array had dematerialized in an entirely anticlimactic puff of splintered debris. The rest of the station broke apart much more satisfactorily. Plasma cutters raked the outer hull in long, gouging swaths, splitting open sections of the station like swollen grub sacs and disgorging whole clouds of the wriggling, pupae-like vermin within. Dozens of precision-guided missiles slammed into the main hangar deck, collapsing the airlock and creating a backdraft that immolated the entire hangar before being vacuumed out into space along with the charred remains of everything else. Railguns whumped soundlessly, bombarding the station with electromagnetically charged artillery the size of oil drums. Whole chunks pinwheeled off the orbital before exploding as if all part of some spectacularly bellicose fireworks display.