“An ancient farming vessel,” Peter spoke. His voice always projected, a holdover from his days of training cadets.
“That’s right,” Gil replied, his soft, raspy timbre sounding in stark contrast. He scratched his cheek with the back of his fingers as he hunched forward. His eyes wandered the space in the General’s pause, from the shelves of honors, medals, and biographies to a sword which he had been given from the previous general who retired in his old age. It rested atop its own table in the back corner, at the edge of the window. The window was where Gil’s eyes landed after their tour of the room, landing on the tight formation of the most powerful force known to man. It had brought peace, with stray exceptions, amongst all the inhabited planets across the galaxy. It represented the unity of the republic, the accomplishments of coordinated diplomacy. It was, to Gil’s mind, the crowning achievement of his species. But, he always considered, what more was there to compare it to when his was the only species around? The ships were different from Berserker One, newer, xergoyan based, and interconnected in an intricate network that weaved them all together to make a greater whole. That was its strength. It shared all information instantaneously across all ships, their systems, energy, and firepower could be redistributed through the one of a kind matrix. Berserker One’s exclusion from this web was what allowed it to perform its missions in requisite isolation.
As General Hardy passed in front of the ships, Gil’s concentration refocused on his superior. Peter stood behind his desk, behind his chair, his meaty fingers wrapped around the top of his chair, squeezing it. He was consternated. “But you don’t think I need to speak with them.”
“That’s right,” Gil replied, crossing one leg over the other in his chair.
Peter chuckled. “I’ll always appreciate your candor, Captain Graves.”
Gil lifted his hands up and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Yes, yes, Peter, and I’ll always appreciate your sternness.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he twisted the spun the chair beneath him to take a seat. “And your irreverence.”
Gil grinned. “I suspect a hint of irony in your tone, general.”
“Oh, get us a pair of drinks, Gil.” Peter waved his hand in the air then leaned back in his chair, permitting an element of ease to his posture, but not giving way to it. It was the most he could ever manage, just a small degree.
Gil hobbled to the table opposite the sword where the decanter rested and swiped it into the air to pour it out between two glasses. He replaced the decanter and returned to the desk, placing one glass before Peter and holding the other above his knee once he sat back down.
Peter took a sip and pursed his lips. “Alright, you’ll have to let me in on your thought process.”
Gil felt the scratch of the whiskey as it ran down his throat before he responded, “I’m an open book, Pete.”
Peter took another sip, then laid his elbows at the edge of the desk and squinted on Gil. “You’ve uncovered a relic of a vessel in contested territory in perfect working condition despite unresponsive controls.”
“In an untouched bridge.”
“Right. In an untouched bridge. Within this vessel, you meet four potential crew, but find no other sign of personnel or even cargo, which would be the purpose of a vessel that size.”
“You’ve got it so far.”
“And the vessel in question appeared after some mysterious obstruction that blocked a warphole disappeared, then disappeared itself shortly after you disembarked.”
“Yep.” The last bit of the first round slipped along Gil’s tongue and emptied into his now warm belly.
“And after all of this, an escape that cost the life of one unfortunate individual, and the return of three others back to Central IURF Command, but you don’t want the chief commanding officer to debrief the individuals in question?”
Gil emphatically nodded his head. “Absolutely not.”
Peter shook his head. “Why?”
“You just said it, general.”
Peter took a deep breath then swallowed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp. He exhaled with a growl. His voice was still raspy as he spoke, “Maybe you ought to tell it to me, since I’m not getting it when I’m saying it.”
“Look,” Gil said, laying the glass at the edge of the desk and pushing it forward with an extended finger, “I’ve mulled this over. What happens when you debrief?”
Peter leaned back crossing his arms. “You know protocol, Gil. Get to the point.”
Gil pointed a finger at Peter. “That’s precisely the point, though, Pete! Protocol. Goddamn protocol.”
“Pretty sure protocol is what keeps this fleet in working order, captain. I know you and your precious Berserker One misfits operate on your own special set of rules, but here, where the galaxy looks for order, protocol is the thin line between peace and chaos.”
Gil rubbed the stubble of his neck. “You’re absolutely right, Peter.”
“Good, so you’ll have them brought into CC where I’ll speak directly to--”
“Which is why I strongly advise against you speaking with the strangers.”
Peter sighed. “Goddamnit, Gil.”
“Hear me out, alright? What’s the Berserker One for?”
“No more questions.”
“Alright, I’ll answer it. My ship serves the special service of this fleet to deal with the murky territory beyond the reach of protocol. Stealing xergoyan from pirates, facilitating back channel negotiations with rebels. Dealing with the as of yet wholly misunderstood backstory to the strangers currently in holding. Which, by the way, is already against my recommendation.”
“Okay, Gil, yes, your ship serves that purpose. But it’s not unleashed, you know that. There are some things that come back to CC, things that require examination.”
“Some, but not this.” A serious tone descended, which Peter could read across Gil’s face as it lent gravity to his words. “This, General, is a thing from the unknown. The moment you take it in, you,” he emphasized, pointing again across the desk at Peter, “you’re inviting that element into the fragile world of bureaucracy, and politics, and chain of command that just isn’t equipped--”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute there, Graves,” Peter interjected. He lifted a finger of his own, aimed Gil’s way. “Don’t you accuse me of politicking.” He leaned back in his seat with a grin on his face. “You know me better than to insult me with that charge.”
Gil didn’t offer a smile back, and in the absence, the character of their banter dropped to the floor to a place more grave. Gil was serious. “Heed this warning, Peter. What we have on our hands is something wild, and wilderness isn’t fit for the fleet, only Berserker One.”
Peter held a pause for a moment before inquiring with a lower tone, “You think it’s something…”
Gil understood what remained unfinished. In millennia among the stars, stretching out across the galaxy, humanity had populated a nearly uncounted number of planets, migrations sweeping across solar systems, terraforming fostering evolution from the seeds of life that formed in the nearly forgotten first world before its destruction and disbursement. They settled wondrous new environs, making homes where they found hospitable climates. And yet, in all their discovery, never a trace of alien life. It was humanity only in all the corners of the spirals that spread out from the black hole center. The question, which at some point in their infancy was present on their lips, had settled to a dormant place in the soil of the subconscious, awaiting contact. Were they alone?
“I don’t know,” answered Gil to Peter. “But I do know this is not for IURF.”
Peter’s brief exhibition of wonderment vanished with these words and he assumed his usual rigidity, chin raised, staring down the bridge of his nose at the captain.
“I appreciate your opinion, Captain Graves,” he said, standing and turning to face the fleet through the window. “But I’ve made my decision. I’ll have their leader moved to CC where I can meet w
ith him for a debriefing so I can choose the next course of action.”
Behind him, Gil sighed, despite anticipating this outcome. The failure in Peter’s logic, he figured, was that arriving at choice and action required the impossible task of reading Evan like he was no different from them. Gil knew, despite not knowing why, that Evan was different. Entirely so.
Seven.
Camaraderie
____________________________
Central Command’s amenities were second to none. The largest of IURF’s ships and essentially fixed in position above the plentiful planet Reuthra, it served as a base of operations and capital of sorts to the Republic. Though the elected officials only occasionally boarded, they lived on Reuthra below, thereby holding the political and military arms of the IUR in unity. All of this meant that Central Command was well stocked, top of the line, and the hub for all things Fleet so it could serve as a shining beacon of accomplishment. With all this in mind, Ian Lucas skipped passed the spas, restaurants, and multi-denominational service centers for the pub. Not one to drink alone, he took Sheri McBride along with him for an earnest drinking session.
As he slammed down his first pint on the wooden bar, he admired its glossy finish and the convincing imperfections in its texture. “They really knew what they were doing when they built this, you know?”
Sheri lifted her mug to her lips and sipped, nodding along. “Mhm.”
Ian cracked a smile at her presentation. “Alright, Sheri, come on now. If you don’t cut loose, I’m pretty sure you’ll be stuck like that forever.”
She turned her gaze upon him with shock and offense. “Like what?”
Ian cringed, and attempted to backpedal. “I mean, we’ve been part of the same crew for, how long?”
“Eighteen months.”
Ian nodded. “Of course you know exactly. That’s my point. Sheri, can I tell you something I learned?”
“Ian,” she replied, “I do believe you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He swatted her back in a friendly gesture. “That’s absolutely right. Life, this thing you’ve disengaged with, as far as I can see, is a trip. Or a ride. Among the thing’s it’s not, however, are a duty, mission, task, or test.”
Sheri’s finger traced the edge of the top of her mug, it’s icy cool wetness leaving a trace droplet. She rubbed it against her thumb’s knuckle and watched it dry. “You know what? I agree with you.”
“Ah, see? That’s good to hear. I was worried about you.”
“Life is about appreciation, no doubt.” She leaned over nearer Ian’s ear with a wicked grin. “It just doesn’t have to be ravenously consumed.”
Ian stared into her intense stare for a prolonged moment before his lips curled very near to his ears in a jovial smile. “I don’t care what you say this time, Sheri. You’re still doing shots with me.”
Sheri rolled her eyes while he ordered them, but upon arrival, she took up hers and cheers’ed his before throwing it back. He cringed while her face remained unchanged. As he rebounded from the burn, he returned to his initial point. “As I was saying, this bar top is absolutely astounding.”
“How so?” Sheri asked, humoring her friend.
His fingertip ran along the imperfections, the knots, encircling them. “Look at this.”
Sheri nodded. “I see. They’re knots.”
Ian slowly turned his face towards her, then shook his head. “Nope. It’s not.” He knocked his fist against the bar. “No wood whatsoever.”
Sheri looked down at the surface beneath her drink. “Really?”
Ian nodded. “Wouldn’t last like this has. But they still opted for the wooden aesthetic, instead of making it flashy like modern design today, sweeping through the galaxy. And you know why?”
“Why’s that?” Sheri asked before taking another sip.
“Because it reminds everyone of home. Most bars on most planets - well, the dingy ones, anyway, the only ones worth venturing to - all have wooden bars. It’s just one of those odd commonalities you find across cultures, across vast expanses of empty space.”
Sheri narrowed her gaze. “I’m not so sure it’s that odd, Ian.”
He waved her off. “They could use stone, plastic, metal, any number of other, honestly more efficient materials for bars. But they choose wood.” He ran a hand across the top of the bar. “Probably some primal affection.” He took a deep breath and turned back to Sheri. “Anyway, my point is they knew what they were doing, making this place welcoming, you know?” He raised his glass to his lips and finished his first drink.
“How can you tell?” Sheri asked. “I mean, it looks like real wood. I’ve seen fake wood much less convincing.”
“I’ve been everywhere, it’s just something I can tell now.”
Sheri grinned. “You mean you been to every dive bar in the galaxy.”
Ian nodded. “True enough.”
“What was the wildest adventure you went on, Ian?”
He looked over each of his shoulders at the rest of the bar. The small space was occupied by few, but the uptight Central Command Fleet officers and assorted Fleet lieutenants were enough to cause discretion’s influence to lower Ian’s voice. He hunkered closer to the bar and scooched closer to Sheri. “Technically I’m still bound by court mandate not to discuss it. But let’s just say there’s a wild ride awaiting anyone willing to skirt along the event horizon at the center.” He lifted his finger to his lips playfully as he finished speaking.
“No way,” Sheri contested.
Ian shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. You could ask Captain.”
Sheri laughed. “You’re a madman, Ian Lucas.”
He laughed along. Their boisterous laughter attracted the attention of those around them, a fact Sheri came to notice quickly as she stopped laughing, but Ian failed to pick up on. “So, Sheri,” he said, “now you know my dirty laundry. What damned you to Berserker One?”
Her eyes followed a pair of men as they approached from the shadowed corner. “I think that’s a tale for another day, Ian.”
“Oh, hogwash,” he declared, just before he, too, spotted their company.
“Did I hear that right?” one of the men spoke. “Did you all mention you’re crew aboard Berserker One?”
The other man chimed in, “Hey, isn’t that the old clunker of a shitpile that runs around picking up rebel scum like they were friendlies?”
Sheri felt her jaw tightening. “Everyone was a rebel before they joined the Interplanetary United Republic. That’s just policy.”
“You hear that?” the first man spoke to the second.
“Sounds like excuses for treason.”
The first man nodded.
“Oh boy,” Ian sounded, turning himself back to the bar, lifting a finger towards the bartender to order another. As they bartender neared, an attractive blonde Ian couldn’t help smiling at, he leaned closer towards her, hoisting his upper body onto the faux-wooden bar. “You may want to call security.”
The bartender looked to the two men behind him as they closed in on Sheri. “She’ll be fine, they wouldn’t hit a girl. They’re rude, but they’re still Fleet.”
“Yeah,” Ian said, “but we’re not. And it’s not her I’m worried about.”
“Hey!” shouted the first man into Ian’s ear. “You talkin’ shit, shortstack?” He laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder, which was quickly followed by Sheri’s grip on his forearm.
Ian looked into the wide eyes of the bartender and said, “Too late.”
The observation deck aboard Central Command was a sight to behold. From its vantage point, through the massive hundred foot tall clear wall, fleetfolk could view nearly all the fleet below and above them, the ships aligned as according to purpose, from emissary vessels, to exploration, terraforming, cargo, and defense, floating in perfect formation above the radiant curvature of the lusciously green Reuthra underneath. It was the Fleet that captivated Cameron Mills as he stared across at it from their table where he
chewed on his perfectly cooked meat. The machinery, the order, the automation had fascinated him since he was a child taken aboard Central Command, when his father took him.
For Olivia McCarthy, the image that most intrigued her was that of the planet slowly rotating beneath the ships. She’d been there innumerable times, but it still stole her breath when she saw it, reminded of all the history that existed there, the coexisting cultures that managed peace to spawn the Republic. Her hand idly twirled a fork amongst greens in the ignored salad on the table beneath her transfixed gaze.
When Cameron pulled his vision away from the Fleet, he turned to Olivia and inquired, “What did you make of the strangers?”
With her eyes still glossy, lost in the wilds of the planet they watched, she replied, “Honestly, I’ve never encountered people like them.”
“They were truly...strange,” Cameron said, failing to conjure a more accurate word. “They way they responded…”
Olivia finally turned away from Reuthra to look at her fellow lieutenant. “It’s like they were totally blank slates, you know?”
“Mm,” Cameron mumbled in agreement.
“Every question I asked, they didn’t seem to have an answer. Everything was hazy, he said. But when I looked into his eyes, he seemed crystal clear on everything. Which was nothing. Like he’d been born that very moment, just before we entered the hold. No knowledge of the galaxy, no cultural connection, no memories, no recognition of references.”
Cameron nodded along. “Nothing.”
“I just don’t know what to make of it,” she added, lifting her red locks and uniting them with a band behind her head to create a vibrantly red, frizzy ball of hair. Though she didn’t take notice, Cameron could see several men around them viewing her as she did so, grinning with unseemly thoughts. He ignored them in favor of their conversation.
Fallen Fleet (Berserker One Book 1) Page 5
