The Lazarus Particle

by Logan Thomas Snyder

  “Alekki.”

  “My Zj,” she responded brightly, crisply.

  “We find fault with your dress.”

  Behind him he could hear the hitch in her throat as she started to speak, then thought better of it. He imagined her dipping her head, frantically searching for the offending item. It galled him even more that she seemed all but incapable of recognizing and correcting her failing. He could hear her breath, shallow, and halting. At his side he clenched and unclenched his fist, until at last it refused to relax. Finally he could take no more. Turning on his heel, he shoveled his fist into Alekki’s gut. Even aged and infirm as he was, he connected with enough force to drop the girl to her knees, retching and spasming.

  “Your roka,” he said. Flexing his fingers discreetly, he straightened himself. Traditionally, the roka, a Tyroshi battle blade not unlike a molecularly honed cutlass or scimitar, was worn on the right side only in the event of impending hostilities. For ceremonial functions, it was to be worn strictly on the left hip. In her haste to dress and assemble, Alekki had fixed it on the combative side. It was a thing she rarely had occasion to wear since joining their ranks, true. Still, it should not have required his calling attention to it.

  Ndeeldavono leveled the rest of his senior staff with a telling stare as Alekki struggled back to her feet and reaffixed the offending item. Surely each and every one of them had detected her mistake and allowed it to pass without warning. To them, he had nothing to say. His eyes communicated they would revisit this on a more opportune occasion.

  “Tower reports visiting vessel is preparing to dock within two minutes, my Zj.”

  “Thank you, Lj Rejvollori. Let us all stand proudly, united as one, and meet our guests as if they were indeed worthy of the unprecedented honor awaiting them.”

  Never before had a human set foot aboard a Tyroshi vessel. Yet as unctuously as Ndeeldavono should have viewed the prospect, he did not. In fact, if anything, he found it intriguing. Commander Knolan Orth, he understood, was what his fellow humans considered to be an “officer’s officer” and a “class act.” And while Ndeeldavono did not understand the exact context of these assessments, he felt reasonably assured after conversing with the man that they were of agreeable attitudes. Orth, it seemed, not only commanded but invited respect. An interesting tactic, but then his had been something of a passive command. Possibly the nature of human leadership required different attitudes for different posts. The same could not be said of the Tyroshi, who prized acquisition above all else.

  For Ndeeldavono, to welcome such an unprecedented guest aboard his flagship was by far the most prized acquisition among a suite of career accolades and accomplishments.

  “Tower reports visiting vessel incoming.”

  The vessel landed unmolested, gases firing with a swish-hiss of counter thrust as it settled before them. The hatch opened a moment later, the swirling gases giving the dropping of the ramp a suitably dramatic air. As the gases cleared, a tight circle of personnel began to descend. Commander Orth emerged first. He was flanked by two of his Marines. Ndeeldavono’s first impression of the man was his impressive bearing, standing shoulder to shoulder with his well proportioned honor guard. Behind him trailed a small entourage of technical types led by an unassuming young ensign. Two more Marines brought up the rear.

  The living manifestation of his clan, Ndeeldavono stood apart as the visitors took their first steps aboard his flagship. “Welcome, Commander Knolan Orth of Morgenthau-Hale. We are Ndeeldavono: Zj Soliorana. It is our great honor—indeed, our privilege—to host the first humans ever to set foot aboard a Tyroshi vessel.”

  “We stand most humbled by your hospitality, my Zj. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, and on such short notice.”

  “Of course, of course.” Ndeeldavono bowed his head solicitously. “However, we would be remiss, Commander, if we did not express our deep and enduring regret for the mistaken identity that resulted in the destruction of your station. It is an action which will weigh heavily upon our spirit well after it has been committed to the Aftermire.”

  Tension reigned as Orth absorbed the Zj’s mea culpa. Finally, Orth nodded. “Indeed. I cannot condone or forgive the act. I do understand the gravity of command, however. It is no small thing to commit the lives of so many to the leadership of so few. Often our mistakes result in the gravest of outcomes. It is my hope that our actions here together can in some way balance the scales.”

  “As you say, Commander. We appreciate a man who speaks plainly and without reservation.” Ndeeldavono smiled just so, a conspiratorial gleam shining in his eyes. “It is rumored among our people that some humans speak with barbed tongues…”

  “Very many, in fact,” Orth corrected him with a tiny smile of his own, “but only in the figurative sense, I can assure you.”

  “Ah,” Ndeeldavono chuckled. The sound was remarkably similar to that produced by a human larynx. “The worst kind.”

  “Indeed, my Zj. I am inclined to agree.”

  “Please, Commander Orth, let us dispense with the pomp. You stand aboard this vessel as honored guest. We would have you address us as Ndeeldavono.”

  Orth nodded once by way of acknowledgement. “And I would welcome you to call me Knolan.”

  “Come, Knolan. We would have you tour our vessel, and then we have much to discuss.”

  It was a most unorthodox tour of a vessel that ended with a trip to its brig, though Ndeeldavono was not without his reasons.

  “Your brig?” Orth arched a brow, eyeing the Zj curiously. “An interesting location to conclude upon. Do you mean to give my honor guard actual purpose here beyond the merely ceremonial? I assure you they are more than up to the task.”

  Ndeeldavono smiled. He had to admit, he rather liked Commander Knolan Orth. The man was as charismatic as he was confident. It was no wonder so many were willing to follow him on his quixotic quest. “Nothing of the sort, we assure you,” he replied, leading them into the deepest recesses of his ship. “We would but introduce you to a dear friend.”

  “A dear friend you keep in the brig.”

  “As you say, Knolan.”

  There was nothing modern about a Tyroshi brig. No force fields or shield generators, no warm lighting or bunks upon which to wile away the time. Just a six by four cell of cold steel, a single meal a day, and a bucket. Ndeeldavono fondly recalled his own stay in Zj Hexxokoles’ brig as a young officer. He had been stubborn and reckless then, a disgrace to his Clan and the Tyroshi just waiting to happen. A week in the Zj’s brig gave him ample time to reconsider his profligate ways. By the time he emerged, young Ndeeldavono had undergone a transformation. Where once he had been headstrong and rebellious, the revelations he experienced in isolation helped shape and mold him into a dynamic yet solicitous young officer who rose quickly through the ranks of his clan.

  Ndeeldavono brought them to a halt before the very cell he had once occupied so many decades ago. The sight of it drew a smile from his lips. As for its current occupant, Ndeeldavono was under no delusions. The man would not welcome him or thank him for the perspective gained from his time spent between those bare, filthy walls. He would curse Ndeeldavono’s very name, indeed, his entire Clan. And the Zj would welcome it, if only to watch the poor fool suffer in the delivering of the message.

  “Is this where we find your friend?” Orth wondered.

  “It is, indeed.” Ndeeldavono nodded to its silent guard.

  As the guard opened the cell, its lone occupant appeared in stark relief. He was dirty and disheveled, huddled against the far wall. As bad as he looked, he smelled even worse. All of which was to be expected, of course. Even the telltale signs of isolation and interrogation were hardly cause for alarm. The occupant was a prisoner, after all.

  It was the prisoner’s childlike stature that proved most arresting. Everything from his stubby arms and legs to his over-large head suggested the prisoner was an adolescent youth, though of what species was another question entirely.
r />   “A child?” Orth said as if he could hardly believe his own eyes. There was an edge to his voice now, steely and cold. Apparently he considered the enslavement of children a bridge too far. A useful thing to know of one’s would-be allies.

  … And enemies.

  “By the Lord of the Aftermire Himself,” Ndeeldavono exclaimed, chuckling ruefully at the very idea. “No, no. We assure you, this one is no child.”

  “Ptsvy is no child,” the man in the cell spat, his voice cracked and raw from thirst and disuse.

  “You see, Knolan? He admits it.”

  Orth appraised the diminutive man in the cell as one would a wild beast: carefully, from a distance. “Who is he? What is his crime?”

  Ndeeldavono drew breath to answer, but the prisoner beat him to it. “You have the distinction of speaking to Ptsvy of Kalifka,” he declared, his voice becoming fuller the more he spoke, “Herald Prince of the Bazaar and All Its Minions. His crime? Only to have underestimated the most esteemed Zj Soliorana.”

  “Oh, you give us far too much credit, Ptsvy. It was the Commander’s gunboats who outran your patchwork fleet and pummeled your precious palace from above. We were there merely to draw you out.”

  “Technically,” Orth corrected, “those were Ship Commander Trufant’s gunboats.”

  Ndeeldavono shrugged. “Be that as it may.” Stepping into the cell, he made a show of kneeling to address Ptsvy at eye level. “Ptsvy, Ptsvy, Ptsvy,” he chided slowly. “We understand from our Lj you have been most uncooperative. That ends here and now. The time has come to talk, Ptsvy. Tell us how to access the tracking beacons you placed among the supplies you sold to the Free Planetary Irregulars.”

  Even in his weakened state—or perhaps because of it—Ptsvy knew he held all the cards. A low, gravelly chuckle rose up from within his dwarfish frame. “Ptsvy knew you would come eventually. Ptsvy knew.” Lifting his head to meet Ndeeldavono eye to eye, he bared his gilt-edged teeth in a savage smile. “And now that you have, he shall be glad to talk, but only to tell you that Ptsvy’s final act of vengeance shall be to deny you your own.” Before anyone could stop him, Ptsvy tongued the inside of his cheek and bit down, hard. Almost immediately he began to foam at the mouth; the seizing began only a moment after, his tiny body thrashing about so violently it looked as if he were being electrocuted.

  “No,” Ndeeldavono breathed. “No!” Scrabbling backwards, he pushed past Orth into the corridor. “Summon the medic at once!”

  By the time the medic finally arrived, Ptsvy of Kalifka, Herald Prince of the Bazaar and All Its Minions, was dead.

  Only the grin fixed upon his lifeless lips suggested otherwise.

  “How?!” Ndeeldavono barked at the man with the iridescent eyes. In contrast to Ptsvy, he had been sitting calmly in the center of his cell when the Zj burst in, picked him up by the neck, and slammed him bodily into the bulkhead. “How was he intending to track the beacons?!”

  The man tried to speak, only to devolve into an unintelligible gurgling.

  “Do you expect the man to answer when you are strangling him to death, Ndeeldavono?” Orth called from behind him. “Give him a chance to answer!”

  Ndeeldavono heard Orth’s words. They made sense on a certain level. Yet on another, wholly atavistic level, Ndeeldavono was tempted to keep going, keep applying pressure until the man’s strangely glowing eyes popped out of his head and could no longer fix him with that unnerving gaze. Why even bother with the dance? Why not just choke the life out of him here and now and be done with it?

  It was only when Orth’s powerful hands grasped him from behind, yanking him backward, that he let go of the man. Without the Zj’s grip supporting him, the prisoner crumpled to the floor of the cell a gasping and hacking mess.

  “Get ahold of yourself!” Orth hissed.

  Had it been anyone else, Ndeeldavono would have separated their head from their shoulders without so much as a second thought. From Orth, however, the words had a sobering effect. He nodded, taking and holding a deep, steadying breath.

  “Let me speak with him.”

  Ndeeldavono’s eyes snapped open. Orth met him gaze for gaze. “Very well. You may try.”

  Orth offered the prisoner his hand. “What is your name?” he asked once they stood eye to eye.

  “Is Ptsvy dead?” the prisoner asked as he rubbed at his throat.

  “Yes. He poisoned himself with some sort of capsule secreted within his cheek. Now, I would have your name.”

  “Jobosk, sir.”

  “Jobosk. I am Station Commander Knolan Orth of Morgenthau-Hale.”

  “So nice to meet you, Station Commander Knolan Orth of Morgenthau-Hale.”

  “So, you were Ptsvy’s manservant?”

  “I prefer the term majordomo.”

  “Forgive me. I would not knowingly deny you any due gravitas.”

  “That is most appreciated, Commander Orth.”

  “As Ptsvy’s majordomo, you were no doubt privy to the means by which he intended to track the Free Planetary Irregulars? Is this accurate?”

  “I was. It is.”

  “Will you disclose those means to Zj Soliorana?”

  “I will not.”

  “We have heard enough,” Ndeeldavono declared, turning for the door. “Flush him out the nearest airlock and be done with it,” he said to the waiting guard.

  “But I will tell you.”

  The sound of Ndeeldavono turning on his heel and marching back down the corridor preceded his sudden return. “What did he just say?”

  Ignoring him, Orth raised a brow, indicating interest but not commitment. “Your terms?”

  “I would have myself remanded into your custody, Commander, with promise I shall not be executed.”

  “And?”

  “That is all. I am quite certain you will find use for my unique skills once we become better acquainted.”

  Orth turned to regard Ndeeldavono wordlessly.

  “You would have him?” the Zj wondered.

  “Well, he does seem quite certain I’ll find a use for him. Better than flushing him out an airlock, especially if it gets us the means to track the Irregulars.”

  Ndeeldavono did not really have to consider the terms. Still, he made a show of it nonetheless. “He is yours,” he said after several moments of needless deliberation. “Consider him a gift to commemorate our remarkable friendship.”

  “Thank you, my Zj.” Orth turned back to Jobosk. “As your new master, I would hope your first act in my service is not to make of me a fool.”

  “Perish the thought, master. The beacon signature is as follows.” Jobosk rattled off a series of letters and numbers. The young ensign leading Orth’s technical contingent stepped forward, entering the string of alphanumeric characters into his flexpad. Several tense moments later, the ensign announced their people had acquired the signal.

  “It’s there, sir,” the ensign said with obvious relief. “We have to get closer, though, or we risk losing it.”

  “Inform navigation to set course for the coordinates they are about to receive,” Ndeeldavono said, stalking out of the cell into the corridor. “Make sure all batteries are primed and ready to alternate fire the moment we engage. We may only get one chance at this.”

  36 • WAR GAMES

  High above the test-tube planet of Eden Prime, opposing flocks of black Banshees shrieked to and fro through its empty skies. It was day five of flight school redux, and the pilots of Gold Wing had performed to such a high standard in their solo training that Dell and Ohana decided it was time to up the ante. The venue? None other than a classic aerial dogfight. It was all a bit pell mell, but it freed the pilots of the limitations of the first few days of training and allowed them to get a feel for what the Banshees were truly capable of in a fluid, if mock, combat situation.

  “Break right, break right!”

  “I got him!”

  “Watch out, coming up on your six!”

  The chatter was coming as fast and f
urious as the laser light tags that identified who had been killed or just grazed.

  “Goin’ down!” Alpha Three joked, stifling a laugh as he righted and reset his designation. “Nice shot, Beta Seven.”

  “Why, thank you, Alpha Three. Always nice for one’s work to be appreciated.”

  “Caught a graze, good to go,” Alpha Twelve added, “but where the fuck is my cover?”

  “Comin’ in hot!” called Alpha Eleven in reply. His lasers strafed two of the Betas trailing his wingman with (mock) deadly effect. “Woo hoo!”

  “Shit-hot flying, Alpha Eleven. Nice job.”

  “Looks like the Betas are regrouping!” Alpha Three announced.

  Amidst all the faux turmoil, Dell—Alpha Leader—had but a single target on his heads-up display. “I’m coming to get you, you know.”

  “You just try, flyboy,” Ohana—Beta Leader—taunted back through their private channel. He could practically hear the smirk on her face in her voice. It only made him want her that much more. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t get a fix on her. Every time he tried, she juked away as if in anticipation of his every move. “Ha! That the best you got?”

  “Whoever said that’s my best is a dirty liar,” Dell retorted. Throttling his Banshee into overdrive and zooming ahead of her, he flipped end over end and sent a volley of laser fire her way.

  She laughed as she threw her Banshee into a nimble roll, curling around and throttling up so that suddenly she was chasing him. “I’ve been called worse. You’re still going to have to do better than that!”

  “So are you!” he said, dipping and dodging his way through a hectic volley of laser fire.

  “Is it weird that this is making me kind of horny?”

  “A little,” he had to admit. Focused as he was on not getting splashed, her ability to compartmentalize so easily did strike him as a bit unusual.

  “Whatever. Win, lose, or draw, I’m so jumping your bones after this.”

  “Noted.”