The Coming Storm_A Pax Aeterna Novel

by Trevor Wyatt

  As an intelligence operative, I have learned never to discount any possibility, regardless of how improbable or impracticable they may seem at the time. A lot of good agents die because they are too smug to accept a highly unlikely scenario. Usually, those “somebody” makes their scenario probable and ends up killing those agents.

  What if the guy who was assassinated isn’t all that righteous? What if he really wasn’t Pro-Ascension? What if he really was just an insert by the government to monitor the Pro-Ascension faction and make sure they don’t cause trouble? In that case, assassinating him would not really be assassinating one of its own since in the real sense the man was really Pro-Ascension. But that wouldn’t make sense because Ascension is the government’s party line. It’s a Sonali tradition.

  As I consider this scenario, I’m baffled by the fact that it is, indeed, highly improbable that the guy was a spy. It’s usually almost impossible to infiltrate a zealot, fanatic group, such as what both the Pro-Ascensionists and Origin Movement have started to become. In fact, fanatic groups are hard to infiltrate anywhere in the galaxy, even in New Washington.

  Nowadays, during the early years of the formation of the Galactic Council, it has been extremely difficult to infiltrate the ranks of the anti-alien movement led by Lucien Parker and his Terran Nationalists. Many agents have tried and been burned.

  Including me.

  My order was to infiltrate the anti-alien movement, shortly after the supposed destruction of the Tyreesian cruiser and the massacre in the global diplomatic headquarters. At first, I looked at the Director of Armada Intelligence in New Washington, a smug and young son of a bitch who never carries a single strain of hair on his bare head.

  “You’re kidding right?” I asked him.

  He smiled at me.

  “Are you so fucked up that you can’t think again?” This time I yell at him. Of course, any other officer, even an Admiral, could have gotten court marshaled and eventually executed, but not me. I am No One, and we had sex before—in fact, he still makes passes at me every goddamn time!

  “No, Anika,” he said, without anger. “This is important. All our best agents have said it’s impossible. No one is willing to risk being blown.”

  Then I smiled. Indeed, No One.

  In the end, I was unable to infiltrate the anti-alien movement.

  My only failure to date.

  So, no, I highly doubt that this guy who was assassinated could be an infiltrator. If I haven’t been able to yet, it’s impossible.

  Nevertheless, until I have hard evidence, I can’t accept speculation.

  “How long to our destination?” I ask the driver.

  “About ten minutes to the Terran Embassy,” replies the Sonali.

  “Make a course correction,” I say out of habit. That’s what I usually tell my navigator when I was still commanding the Armada Intelligence TUS. Oh, the glory days.

  The Sonali doesn’t reply at first. “You mean you want to go somewhere else?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Take me to section YT234 in the Residential Estates.”

  “Okay.”

  The air car makes a sharp turn to the right, and we’re on our way to my rented apartment. My plan is to do a little research on the soldier that was assassinated. To do this, I’ll have to speak to my guys back at New Washington. I don’t want to do this at the Embassy for two reasons. First, I know the communications in and out of the Embassy are being recorded and decoded by the Sonali. I’d be stupid to think it isn’t. And while our encryption protocol is pretty strong, we still do not know the full extent of the Sonali’s electronic capability.

  I don’t want the Sonali making trouble for the Terran Embassy if they discover a communication about the dead soldier and infer that we are conducting an unauthorized intelligence operation on Sonali soil, which is tantamount to an act of war. Of course, they wouldn’t go to war for such a trivial reason, but they can ask for some compensation, which the Terran Union will be compelled to pay.

  Doing the research from my house will ensure my communication is secure. After all, no one would be monitoring my communication.

  I guide the air car to one of the numerous housing units in the Estate. The male Sonali lands on the roof, and I pay him. I take an elevator to the fiftieth floor where my apartment is. It’s a spacious, three-bedroom, two-floored, self-contained apartment that could be in any metropolitan capital.

  In the center of the sitting room, I say, “Initiate the Chameleon Protocol.”

  “Working,” comes the computerized voice.

  Within seconds, every door closes and locks itself. The windows slide shut, and the lights go out. The walls instantly come on, giving off a blue bioluminescence that dimly lights up the room.

  “Contact OD,” I say, “Priority. Authorization code NO1.”

  “Confirmed,” comes the voice.

  Right before me, a holographic projection explodes into existence. It’s Eric, one of the analysts at Armada Intelligence Operations Division. I can see he’s at his workstation.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asks.

  “I need a quick information on the Sonali soldier that was assassinated recently during the Pro-Ascension movement—Noble Yanik,” I say as I type the required information into my pad. “I’m sending you the details now. Give me something I can’t find on the net.”

  Eric calls up the information on his workstation. While he’s doing that, I begin pacing.

  “His name is Yanik,” Eric begins to say. “He was a Noble Marshal in the Sonali military—that’s like a four-star Admiral in Terran Armada rank system. Anyways, at that rank, he was one of the highest-ranking officers in the military caste and renowned for his decisive actions during the war.

  “What you wouldn’t find on the net is that he led the Special Dreadnaughts Division that was responsible for the orbital bombardment of the Azukene Colony during the war,” Eric states and I take a sharp intake of breath.

  Asukene Colony happened in the fourth year of the war. Both powers were slamming each other so hard. Along the way, we both decided that it was a waste of time to send down ground forces to capture a colony. So ships began to just bombard the colonies from orbit.

  Azukene Colony was wiped out. One hundred and ten million people. Glassed.

  A horrible tragedy in a conflict filled with them.

  “So he was a mass murderer of Terrans…” I mutter to myself.

  “You can say that,” Eric says, catching my words. “We have conclusive evidence that he was Pro-Ascension, although he never got involved in politics until he officially changed his status to Pro-Ascension in his records.”

  “So why was he speaking at the conference?” I ask. “Aside from the whole coming out. Any other reasons?”

  Eric doesn’t reply at first.

  “Well, just after his quasi-retirement from active duty, which was just after the war, he was appointed a liaison between the military and the religious caste. So he met regularly with the high-level clergy at the Sonali Temple.”

  “But if the assassin was affiliated with the Sacred Temple…then someone in the Temple assassinated one of their own?” I mutter to myself.

  “It would appear so,” Eric said.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Keep digging into this Yanik guy and let me know if you find anything that you think might help.”

  Eric nods and the slipstream connection ends.

  Gresh

  I am awakened by two things, one more irritating than the next. First, the sharp pain in my left rib that has me reaching to soothe it with my right palm that’s also bandaged. The next is the sharp light in my eyes that feels like there are millions of needles sticking into my eyes. I lift my left palm to stand as a barrier between the floodlight above me and my face. Even though my eyes are slitted shut, the light still manages to pierce through.

  “Blasted light,” I mutter to myself. I try to turn away from the persistent, violating flood of light upon my face, but the
n I feel another flood…this time, it is of pain that threatens to send me into another bout of unconsciousness.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” says a voice I have become all too familiar with.

  Then I hear a sound like something is moving, and the light is suddenly no longer on my face. I open my slits and remember that I am actually in a hospital room. I see the mysterious Terran lady, Rosaline, standing right next to my bed, wielding a handheld flashlight.

  I give her a confused look. “Why would you flash that thing to my eyes?” I try to sit up, feeling streaks after streaks of pain go through my spinal cord. I grunt, making my way up to a sitting position. The bed slants automatically to fit my desired position.

  I shut my eyes again for a moment, waiting for the pain to flush past me. When it is gone—or at least beaten back to a background throb, I glance back to see that Rosaline is still looking at me.

  I frown. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  She’s dressed in tight-fitting pants and a dark velvet jacket that covers a silk, ashen vest—and yes, these are tight too. Oddly enough, I find her extremely attractive. Even the face breather she has on does not detract her beauty. Her brunette hair has a lovely look in the warm, incandescent light in the room.

  She gives me a tight-lipped smile, switching off the bloody flashlight and laying it on the hover tray beside her. I look and see that on this tray is also a box of medications with directions for use.

  “I had to wake you up,” she said. I notice that she’s speaking in a hushed tone. Not conspirator-style, nevertheless not loud enough as in normal civilized conversation. I can tell we’re about to have a conversation that may potentially put me in danger. She doesn’t want outsiders to hear her; she also doesn’t want me to be afraid.

  I know this is when I should be terrified.

  If my own people can attack me, then the last person I should be conspiring with or having a hushed conversation with is a Terran.

  She gave a short burst of laughter and says, “It’s either the light or I whack you in the head. I figured you wouldn’t want to wake up feeling more pain than what you already have.”

  “You could have just woken me with a tap, you know,” I say, sounding offended.

  “Do you think I didn’t try?” she replies. “I’ve been tapping you for the better part of twenty minutes. The drug they put in your system was too much.”

  “And for a good reason,” I say.

  She sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I need your help. And we don’t have a lot of time.”

  I roll my eyes. When a Terran asks for your help, you better run. They are known to be cruel predators. During the war, I heard tales of a Captain Jeryl Montgomery, known as The Avenger of The Mariner. Whenever his name was called, it would strike fear in our hearts. I remember the first time I heard that the one who was leading a final offensive against Sonali Prime was Captain Jeryl; I was filled with so much dread that I had puked all over my lab. It was a rumor at the end—Sonali Prime wasn’t the target. Beta Hydrae III was.

  But only the Terrans would attack a religious holy planet.

  Put a Terran’s back to the wall, and they’re more dangerous than anyone else in the galaxy.

  I sigh. Times have changed. Now we are at peace with Captain Jeryl and the Terrans. Nevertheless, a lot of Sonali males have been cultured not to trust them, though we derive inspiration from their way of life. Because she was a scientist, I had decided to at least give working with a Terran a try. But Rosaline is beginning to seem more and more like a terrible mistake.

  I open my eyes to look at Rosaline. Her eyes are on fire with urgency and anticipation. I begin to feel the familiar feeling of dread work its way down my spine.

  “Look, Rosaline, I don’t know what you have going on,” I begin, “but please leave me out of it.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I really need your help. You’re the only one I can depend on. Perhaps, you’ll want to help since it involves your Origin Movement.”

  This is when my attention is piqued. I begin to look at her with another set of eyes. I look her up and down and start to wonder. Is she really a xenoarchaeologist? She really doesn’t look the part—not that there is a certain way we look. And even if there is, Terrans certainly would look different, maybe more oddly than usual. I almost chuckle at my wit.

  “What do you know about the Origin Movement?” I ask, my tone guarded. I don’t want to give off more than I have so I can really know what her motives are.

  “I know that if you don’t help me, your movement won't last another month,” she replies with so much confidence that I begin to shiver.

  I think about Sonali Prime without the Origin Movement. What if it’s wiped out in one fell swoop by the Post-Ascension goons? The Origin Movement is the last vestige against the undemocratic government that seeks to tighten its control over every facet of the life of the Sonali.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “It’s obvious what I mean,” she says in a very soft, very suggestive voice. “If you don’t help me, all the work you’ve done for the movement dies. All your effort, all in vain. Noble Marshall’s death will raise a rallying cry against you and the Origin Movement.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask. I am not entirely sure what she hopes to achieve, and neither am I entirely convinced that a lowly Terran scientist can accomplish much in our fight, but I am willing at least to hear her out.

  She takes in a deep breath, and I can see the breather’s lights blink as it compensates for the pressure differences. She lets out the air softly, and her face mask blurs with vapor for a few moments before the breather compensates again.

  She says, “I need you to sneak into your people’s big church and spy on some stuff for me.”

  She says it with so much levity I am almost compelled to believe it’s not a big deal, until years of training, years of terrible, bloody memories, and years of battles bring back to me the sacredness of the temple.

  The Sacred Temple of the Holy Combine.

  The Terrans have a phrase.

  I think it’s…holy fuck.

  “What?” I blurt, blinking at her. I search her smooth, radiant face for signs that she’s trying to pull an elaborate joke or something of that nature. Her face is extremely focused, her eyes burning with intensity.

  “Why would I do that?” I ask again. I know I should be more forceful, but I am befuddled by the magnitude of her request to respond accordingly.

  “Because,” she starts, pausing for a few seconds to look at me, “because I can make life very miserable for you or I can make life very sweet for you. It’s all your choice.”

  This is when I sit straight. All notion of pain vanishes from my eyes, and I look at Rosaline again. This times, she stands before me not as a scientist but as a complete stranger. My first instinct is to call the nurses.

  “Don’t even try it,” she says. She doesn’t move a muscle, nor does she speak a threat. However, the tone of her voice is strong enough to keep my intentions for the nurse as just that; intentions.

  “What?” I say, already breathless. “Who are you?”

  “Long version or short version?” she says.

  “Short version,” I reply. “I don’t want to hear more than I should hear, so the police don’t question me so much.”

  She shrugs. “I’m a spy for the Terran Union, Gresh. But I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to cause any troubles…”

  “Isn’t that what they all say,” I cut in, anger burning in my words. All I can think of is: I should have known.

  “No,” she says. “I’m not like others. Hey, look, I was sent here on an academic mission. I was sent to study your culture and report back to my handlers on the Movement. That’s why I secured work with you because I knew you were close to the Movement.”

  I don’t reply her. I remain quiet, my mind spinning in a hazy mess of indecision.

  “Gresh, I’m tryin
g to find out who assassinated Yanik…”

  “Didn’t you?” I spit out, more out of the anger of betrayal than out of reason and logic.

  She shakes her head, though she realizes how angry I am. For a moment, she looks at me with what I detect as compassion. Her eyes are kinder and warmer and the way she does with her face…I am almost of the opinion that she may be a mother.

  When she begins to speak again, her voice is calm, yet strong.

  “I tracked her down,” she says, “A lady murdered Yanik. I found her and let her go because it was obvious she was working under orders. I tracked her to the Sacred Temple. I could have snuck in and gotten my answers, but like I told you I’m not here to cause trouble. I respect the Sonali people. I respect your culture. I respect what the Origin Movement stands for.”

  She folds her arm. “I wasn’t authorized to intervene,” she says, “but I wouldn’t stand by and watch this Movement die by underhand tactics. So if you won’t help me, I’ll just sit by and watch as the Origin Movement is vanquished and report back to the Terran Union as my mission is.”

  I swallow hard. I feel my heart quake with fear. I am faced with the challenge of trying to envision a Sonali Prime without the Origin Movement. If this revolution is not seen through to completion, then we will be effectively selling our future generations to unconditional slavery to the government.

  “I can’t spy for you,” I say, stammering. “It goes against everything I believe in.”

  Rosaline sneers. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it,” she says. “It’s the people trying to sow discord amongst your rank that are against everything you believe in. All I’m trying to do is keep you all alive and working together.”

  I shake my head, though I have nothing to say. I know the right thing to do, but spying for a foreign race? I can feel my face squeezing at the disgust of the notion. How could I spy for the same people that killed my people by the millions? What would my colleagues think of me? What would the military do to me, if they found out what I was doing?

  “Hey, you don’t have to do it for nothing,” Rosaline says. “As I said, I can make your life miserable or sweet, your choice. But you’re going to help me.”