by Richard Fox
“My queen believes the humans are not as Ambassador Wexil and the Vishrakath made them out to be. They could be more valuable in the war against the Xaros as willing allies, not the slave caste the Toth will provide.”
“I have studied some human documents stored in the Crucible’s data banks. They are as craven and untrustworthy as Wexil describes, but their actions in regards to the Karigole and the Dotok do not fit this classification. Regardless, I reject your queen’s suggestion, with all appropriate respect.”
“Why?”
“Your ground forces are engaged in a limited offensive outside the settlement designated as Phoenix. Is this some manner of gross error? Was a memo as to our tactical and strategic objectives not distributed? Explain.”
Jarilla felt his feeder tentacles twist together.
“It is unavoidable. Human slaves killed the scion of an assault brood. They must generate a replacement to…it is a biological imperative. Their aggression must have an outlet,” Jarilla said.
“Promising reconciliation while engaged in a purge is incompatible with human diplomatic concepts. Additionally, the survivors of the first Xaros attack were from a culture known as ‘the West.’ Our actions mirror prominent historical events known as Pearl Harbor, 9/11 and the HMAS Mendelson incident.”
“I don’t know human history. How did those events play out?”
“Very poorly for those that acted against what the West considered ‘honorable.’ Our initial attack and Ruhaald continued actions make the chance of reaching our goals ahead of schedule unlikely. I will have complete control over the Crucible soon, then I will summon the Toth. Continue your negotiations, the distraction seems to be all that the Ruhaald are good for.”
The channel shut off.
Jarilla slammed a fist against the screen, cracking a spider’s web across its face.
Our survival is more important than the humans, he thought. We will not have a fleet strong enough to defeat the Xaros when they arrive. That is why we are doing this.
He looked to the dark water where his beloved queen dwelled. Her every wish was his command; his failure to save the humans would be accepted. Especially when so much was at stake.
****
Stacey Ibarra paced back and forth across her living quarters. She glanced at a panel recessed into the wall showing the time, Congress meetings and her schedule for the next few days. The last few meetings were highlighted in red: not attended.
Pa’lon sat on a couch, bent forward with his hands interlaced between his knees. Bastion projected a perfect disguise over his Dotok body, making him appear as a well-dressed man in his late forties with a close-cropped beard and swept-back hair.
“This activity of yours does nothing for our situation,” Pa’lon said.
“What else am I supposed to do?” she asked, tossing her hands in the air. “The Naroosha and Ruhaald fleets should have arrived through the Crucible hours ago. For all we know the Xaros are defeated, or the battle’s still going, or the defenses have broken and our people—including the Karigole—are dying. Why are you so calm?”
“We’ve spent many years preparing for the Xaros assault. The outcome is beyond our control. There is no point in fretting.”
“You returned to Takeni when the Xaros came for the planet. Why the hell didn’t one of us go back to Earth?”
“Because we needed you here on Bastion to negotiate for reinforcements. I’m an old, sickly Dotok and the great-great-etcetera ancestor to much of my people. If I go back, everyone will be concerned over my health and not fighting the Xaros. Dotok do not take the ill health of relatives well. I can barely pick up a rifle. No good in a fight.”
Stacey went to a fabrication unit and ordered two cups of coffee. A small shutter opened up and she reached in to remove the drinks. Both were in clear glass cups with no handles.
“Chuck, how many times do I have to tell you the correct way to prepare coffee?” she said to her AI concierge. The heat built in her hands slowly, which meant the coffee was lukewarm and not brewed correctly.
“The most technologically advanced place in the galaxy and we’re drinking coffee like refugees.” She handed a cup to Pa’lon. He reached for it but was stopped when a force field materialized around his hand and drew it back.
“Ambassador-to-ambassador contact is forbidden as per section three thousand twelve of the Bastion protocols,” Chuck said from a ceiling speaker.
“Why can’t I even hand him…forget it.” She set the Dotok’s drink onto a coffee table and went back for sugar and cream.
“It’s a holdover from the Toth betrayal.” Pa’lon took a sniff from the cup and set it back down. “Several lives were lost when the Toth landed a strike team on Metrica, the forerunner to Bastion, and attempted to kidnap a Qa’Resh. After that our hosts moved us to this undisclosed location and abolished the old missions. Only one representative from each race. No touching. Rapport projections over everyone. Most everyone’s managed to get along quite well since then.”
“Pain in the ass is what it is,” Stacey said, adding copious amounts of sugar to the coffee and a dash of cream. Her hand shook as she tried to lift it to her mouth and ended up slamming it back to the table.
“This is worse than with the Toth!” She wrapped her arms around her chest and crossed her legs. “At least then we had a decent chance of winning without Bastion’s help. Did you see the projections on the size of the Xaros fleet?”
“I did. Your grandfather has been preparing for this for a long time. The macro cannons across the solar system can make more of a difference than you think. Let’s not forget the Vorpral and the new Dotok armor units.”
“Yes, your people’s contribution to the defense of Earth is greatly appreciated.”
“Don’t get all diplomatic with me, young one. It is our home too. There aren’t procedural crèches across the solar system producing us by the millions, but we’ll do our part,” Pa’lon said.
“If Bastion had created the technology to…create Dotok-like the proccies, would you have agreed to it?”
“That is a hard question to answer. The thought of eggs maturing beneath hot lights and under the care of a machine and not a doting mother…it goes against the Dotok concept of family. It would be debated by the council of Firsts, then likely put to a vote.” Pa’lon stroked his beard.
“So the decision wouldn’t have been made decades in advance, sperm and ovum collected and hidden in a colony fleet, and proccies fed into the general populace without anyone’s knowledge or consent until some alien race showed up demanding to eat all of them?” Stacey asked, giving humanity’s truncated history with the program.
“It would have been handled differently.”
“Now who’s being diplomatic? You know…we don’t have to wait here. Any ambassador can return home whenever the conduits are free. If the Xaros do conquer Earth again, I don’t want to stay here with those poor souls down in the legacy barracks.”
Of the many races that had been part of the Alliance, some had succumbed to the Xaros advance, others were lost to celestial events, and more than one species had collapsed from the pressure of knowing a fleet of xenocidal drones was heading right for them. Surviving ambassadors from the lost lived in a segregated part of Bastion.
Stacey had been to visit the barracks once. The thought of ever going back and seeing her possible future was more than she wanted to deal with.
“Chuck, show us the conduit schedule,” Stacey said.
A holo tank appeared over the coffee table and a list of ambassadors with their departure times came up. Stacey set her coffee down and stood up. She leaned closer to the list and frowned.
“Pa’lon, why hasn’t anyone left since the Naroosha and Ruhaald ambassadors went to rally their fleets to Earth? Every departure schedule since they left has been missed…and no one else is in the queue to go home,” she said.
“That is most irregular. Perhaps they’re waiting for word of the battle? Bring some good news to their
people?”
The lights went red, accompanied by a ting-ting-ting alert sound. The holo scrambled, replaced by a silver corkscrew-shaped vessel floating in the void.
“Chuck, what race is that and why aren’t they in a pocket dimension like the Breitenfeld? I thought we had security protocols in place…Chuck?” Stacey looked up, waiting for the AI to answer. “Still irregular, Pa’lon?”
“Most.” Pa’lon stood up, spoke something in the chattering Dotok language, then said, “My AI isn’t answering me either.”
“Let’s get to the conduit,” Stacey said. “We need to get out of here.”
The only door to her quarters slid aside. A half-dozen ambassadors stood on the other side, a mix of men and women, all glowering at Stacey.
“What is this?” Stacey asked.
“The end of an error,” the Tinnial ambassador said, appearing as a short woman with a wide Slavic face. Stacey recognized the others, all well-known allies of Vishrakath Ambassador Wexil.
The Tinnial reached out and grabbed Stacey by the arm. The touch was ice cold. Stacey froze in shock at the once-forbidden contact.
More freezing hands grabbed her and hauled her out of her room. Stacey managed a weak protest before a dark cloth bag went over her head. She heard Pa’lon shouting as she was carried away.
****
The moon beneath Valdar’s feet was the same as he remembered from years of visits to Earth’s first natural satellite. The feel of loose dust beneath his feet (which was destined to cover his vac suit in a fine coat of grit before long), the gentle pull of weak gravity, all the same. The sky, however, had changed. A haze of high clouds of dust blown up by whatever glassed the dark side of the moon cut his visibility of the surrounding stars to the point it was almost like he was looking through the polluted skies over the Richmond of his youth.
He looked over a Mule’s wing and watched as his ship and his small fleet vanished over the horizon.
“We’re alone now,” Gor’al said from the open ramp. The Dotok captain hadn’t set foot on the moon yet.
“Now we wait.” Valdar picked up a rock and chucked it farther than he could have ever thrown it on Earth. “There’s an old story about one of the first men on the moon. He brought a golf ball and club with him and hit a couple drives. When he got back to Earth, he asked people how many golf balls were on the moon. The answer was three or four, I don’t remember. Then he’d ask how many golf balls were on Earth. The answer was ‘all the rest.’” Valdar chuckled.
Gor’al cocked his head to the side. “Are your oxygen levels sufficient?”
“Earth humor,” Valdar said as he looked to the void and the Crucible orbiting distant Ceres.
“Got something,” Petty Officer Perez said through the IR from the Mule’s top turret. The sailor had the sharpest eyes on the Breitenfeld, and Valdar needed a spotter more than a gunner for this mission. “Shuttle that originated off the ship over Knoxville is heading right for us. Had it on scope for the last hour. Damn fast too, no escort.”
“Good work.” Valdar made a mental note to increase surveillance on that ship. They hadn’t identified the Ruhaald flag ship yet, if they even had such a concept.
“To be clear,” Gor’al said, leaning over the edge of the ramp, the flesh over his beak twitching, “we will agree to nothing. Yes? Then why are we out here on this ugly rock?”
“They asked to talk to us. The way I see it, we can learn a hell of a lot about them and what they want, and we don’t have to give up anything—assuming they do want to talk and this isn’t just another sucker punch,” Valdar said.
“That we trust them enough to parley is difficult for me,” Gor’al said.
“I looked through the logs right after the Xaros superweapon was destroyed. The Ruhaald ships never fired on us. The others, the Naroosha silver ships, those attacked the picket ships I left around the Crucible,” Valdar said.
“So you trust them?”
“No, I distrust them a fraction less than the Naroosha. Do you have a guess as to why the Ruhaald demanded that we come without any doughboys?” Valdar asked. “I’ve never had those…constructs on my ship.”
“Perhaps he saw one up close. They are quite repulsive, even by human standards.”
“Bogey coming in low.” Perez turned the gauss cannon turret away from the approaching Ruhaald ship as it skimmed over the surface with ease.
“They’re good pilots,” Gor’al said.
The Ruhaald craft slowed and a maneuver thruster twisted its tail toward the waiting captains. The shuttle’s ramp lowered, revealing a tall alien in a bulky environmental suit. The Ruhaald stepped off the ramp and landed on both feet, sliding over the rocky surface and kicking up a plume of dust.
Valdar’s hand twitched, eager to grab the sidearm absent from his thigh. The alien stood a head taller than him and walked forward with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible on the moon.
“I am Septon Jarilla. I render appropriate greetings,” it said.
“Captain Valdar of the Breitenfeld,” he said, gesturing to his Dotok companion and adding, “Gor’al, First of the Vorpral.”
“I witnessed your skill and bravery against the Xaros,” Jarilla said. “These circumstances are not…ideal. This was not our intention when we arrived.”
“Your intentions are irrelevant. Only your actions matter,” Gor’al said. “Do not waste our time with posturing. Tell us what you want.”
“Our conflict is not with the Dotok. If you would—”
“It is with us!” Gor’al smacked a fist against the ramp’s hydraulic brace. “The blade you’ve leveled against the humans’ throats crosses ours. What you speak to Valdar you speak to me.”
“Why don’t you tell us why there’s a conflict at all, Scepton,” Valdar said.
“The Alliance will not tolerate further human independence. The Crucible is ours. For now, it remains our greatest weapon in the war against the Xaros. There is another issue that may be negotiated,” Jarilla said.
“What do you mean ‘for—’” Gor’al stopped as Valdar raised a hand.
“The other issue?” Valdar asked.
“Know that this offer is a courtesy, not one I choose to give. Surrender the procedural-generation technology to us. Every crèche tube, human spawn material bank, and procedural-intelligence generation computer. Intact and functioning. We know the crèches are beneath your mountain cities. Do this, and further bloodshed will be avoided.”
“Why don’t I put out a radio call to every city and tell them to smash the tubes?” Valdar asked.
“Do not think that the Alliance cares for your continued existence. One greater than I believes you must be saved from the depths. If you willingly give in to our demands, we will protect you. Lives can be saved, Valdar. Your civilization will continue. Demilitarized, of course.”
Valdar clasped his hands behind his back. He looked toward the Crucible.
“You came riding in like the cavalry,” Valdar said. “You and the Naroosha. You didn’t see the swarms of drones over Mars. The thousands and thousands of drones pouring out of the gate over Anthalas or Malal’s secret world.”
Jarilla’s feeder tentacles clenched together at the mention of the ancient entity. Valdar didn’t know Ruhaald body language, but that sudden change was telling.
“The Xaros are legion, do you understand that?” Valdar asked. “We killed one of their leaders, but I’m betting they’ll come back. We had a fleet, led by a brilliant woman, that sacrificed itself to buy Earth a little more time to prepare. We survived this time, but barely. The Xaros will return, and in greater numbers, in a few years. If we can’t rebuild with the help of the proccies, what chance do we have? Will you escape through the Crucible the instant the Xaros arrive, or will the Ruhaald put themselves between Earth and annihilation?”
Jarilla’s eyes twitched back and forth.
“That will not be my decision,” he said.
“And giving up the proccies isn’t
mine, but I can take your offer to those who can say yes or no,” Valdar said.
“Know this,” Jarilla said as several of the tentacles on his hand straightened toward Valdar, “the procedurals are the only thing that stops us from destroying your planet. Do not sabotage the crèches. There will be no mercy if you do.”
Jarilla turned toward his shuttle and began to walk away. Then he stopped and looked back to say, “I am sorry we are enemies, Valdar and Gor’al. No matter the outcome, my actions are without malice.”
“Soldiers can act with honor, even if their cause is unjust,” Valdar said.
“I give you three days.” Jarilla walked away.
Valdar climbed back into the Mule and ordered the pilot to take them back to the Breitenfeld. He strapped himself into a seat across from Gor’al as the craft powered up.
“Well?” Valdar asked his Dotok companion.
“Give up the only hope of defending against the Xaros or wait until the enemy takes that hope away from us.” Gor’al tapped a finger against his faceplate. “Either way, we are doomed.”
“They don’t need the Crucible anymore,” Valdar said. “They have Malal. That was why the single Naroosha ship went through the wormhole right after they attacked. They were taking that monster somewhere else. Malal has the blueprints for more Crucible gates…and the Alliance already has the omnium reactor tech.”
“If they get the procedural technology…Earth will have no value. The Alliance can make their own humans.” Gor’al clicked his beak together.
“If we fight them on the ground or wreck the tubes, they’ll nuke us,” Valdar said. “The only bargaining chip we have is whoever sent Jarilla to speak to us.” Valdar felt anger well up inside him. He looked around, making sure that the crew chief wasn’t watching, then slammed a fist against the bulkhead in frustration.
“That last time the Dotok faced such an impossible situation,” Gor’al said, “you arrived in the skies over Takeni. Something tells me you did not have the perfect solution to beating the Xaros at the moment, but you figured it out.”
