Galactic Storm

by Morgan Blayde

  Raio nodded. Commander Hardrune left the bridge.

  A slide strip in the deck whisked him along, past crew’s quarters and the ship’s mess. He came to a small alcove that used a rough boulder from his home world as an altar. The artificial gravity here was lower, encouraging prolonged meditation. Panel lights in the ceiling washed the space a soft pastel blue.

  The commander knelt before the altar.

  He felt the ties that bound him to the Light Born passengers aboard ship. His mind flashed a call, and they came: reptilian, insectoid, water-worlders, high-gee humans, avian females sprouting bright plumes, Silicon-based rock maidens in platinum robes with jeweled hair, as well as life forms nearly indefinable—but no mechamorphs. Queen Oshira had never made Light Born from her own people. Commander Hardrune wondered why that was so. Was there some defect in the mechamorph race that disqualified them from such a bond?

  He remembered his own transformation, commanding the light cruiser Winged Vengeance in the campaign against the Lorsingh Pirates. The bridge took a particle beam that chewed through half its stations.

  Many of the bridge crew died around him. He himself caught pieces of shrapnel, but ignored them. Redundant systems cut in as others failed, dying in electrical fire, filling the air with ozone. “Hold your course. Fire weapons as long as they last,” he thundered, as his ship continued clearing the way for the queen’s flagship.

  She could have struck from further out, but the League didn’t want her to destroy any more planets than she had to. The full power of the Star was easy to unleash but difficult to control—especially at a distance.

  Hardrune had watched the galactic storm bloom in space. Beautiful. Deadly. It shattered, then pulverized the Lorsingh Home-world. Continents became mountain-sized chunks, boulder-sized rubble, gravel, and then a fine dust swirling across the void. Hardrune’s ship rode out the storm—shielded by the queen—and was finally towed out-system to a repair dock.

  Those not killed outright, recovered, healed by Oshira’s golden touch.

  But something unexpected happened when she came to him. The gold light ignited the deepest corners of mind and soul, transmuting his cells, making each one a supercharged capacitor. All—but his memories—had been was wiped away in a blaze of rebirth. A strange enharmonic bonded the queen and captain, some rare affinity allowing raw energy to flow back and forth as needed. By that bond, Hardrune knew when the old queen’s nanobot-based immune system began deteriorating—his own sight had weakened at the same time.

  Supporting the Chosen is a debt we owe to Oshira. We must find the new Guardian. She is the only hope the Light Born have of continuing service—if she will have us. And if a new bond doesn’t come? What then? What will become of you when the last spark of golden energy fades from your cells?

  Savagely, he shook the thought away as the Light Born passengers grouped themselves around him, facing the altar. They sat—as best as anatomy allowed—on the deck, immune to its discomfort. Each being clasped hands, tentacles, whatever, before them, waiting in silent expectancy.

  Over the altar, a pinpoint of light appeared. It twinkled and spun, expanding, turning the blue-washed air to tarnished copper. Green paled to amber. The new light strobed with mounting intensity. The alcove brightened, a crucible of golden energy. The star’s tail lengthened, a sword of light balanced on the altar; the image of their purpose and faith. Blunt features washed yellow by incandescence, the captain’s joined his kindred.

  A thrill went through him. It didn’t matter how many times he led the Ceremony of Communion. It always overwhelmed. He spoke with deep reverence. “Forsaking shadow, we feed our hearts into the flame.”

  In one voice, the others boomed the response, “The sword is our call, the star its invocation.”

  Commander Hardrune drew a deep breath. “We empty our souls, casting our dreams into the fire.”

  The response came immediately, “The ashes shall yield an abundance of hope.”

  Hardrune’s heart swelled with honor and determination. He hurled the next line against the far bulkhead and the universe beyond, “We meld honor in true allegiance, expending our strength…”

  “…Wounding far reaches with the promise of Light.”

  The voices died along with their echoes. The sword of light collapsed into a star-point again, winking out. The blue ceiling lights reclaimed the space. Like the rest of the Light Born, the commander remained statue-still, giving himself over to waiting as the ship drove deeper into the system.

  Time became liquid. Hardrune had no idea how long he was lost in thought. Since his rebirth, his muscles hadn’t felt fatigue, so his body gave him no clue. All he knew was that isolation returned, as the link released him to answer the ship’s intercom.

  He flowed gracefully to his feet despite his bulk, and turned from the altar. Weaving past those who were still in communion, he made his way to the back bulkhead where a com station blinked urgently. As he stopped before the comm. station, the light grew steady, signaling an open channel. “I’m here, report,” Hardrune said.

  “We’re inside the fourth planetary ring, approaching the third. Princess Ashere is there already with her space yacht, as well as a dozen League ships, representing the League High Counsel. The princess has transmitted a request that she be allowed to speak for the League, minimizing confusion since she has already established a rapport with planetary leaders.”

  Commander Hardrune knew the mechamorph princess. That one never employs linear logic where hyper-spatial geometries may suffice. Whatever she wants, it’s not for the reason she will give. Unconsciously, he made a contemptuous sound of disbelief. It was picked up by the comm.

  “What was that again, Commander? There was some…static…on line,” the Executive Officer said.

  “Never mind. I’ll join you soon,” Hardrune said, “and I’ll send a personal reply to the princess.”

  “Aye, Sir. Meanwhile, shall we join formation with the rest of the ships in geo-synchronous orbit?”

  “Go ahead. We want to keep a close eye on things. And there are the natives to consider. We should avoid generating fear of military aggression. If we spread out the ships, it could look like we’re positioning ourselves over possible targets. This world won’t trust us, if we act like bandits.”

  “Aye, Sir. Bridge out.”

  Commander Hardrune left the shrine area and felt the gravity strengthen. It still seemed weak to him. His home world was a terra-formed gas giant. The artificial gravity on ship could have gone up tenfold and he’d barely notice. A slide strip whisked him through the passageways, and the ship’s computer cleared traffic out of his way so he wasn’t delayed.

  “Commander on the bridge,” the Yeoman announced as Hardrune arrived. No one sprang to attention or saluted; these stations were too critical for the usual ceremonies of rank. Protocols were relaxed on the bridge so the tasks at hand had the full attention of the bridge crew. Those who worked closely with him were allowed a respectful familiarity.

  The commander’s blue-lensed reading glasses did little to mute his raptorial stare. Communion had banked his inner fires, wrapping him in a kind of afterglow that invoked a personal distance. This quality was new to the bridge crew. They stole glances at his face, only to avert their eyes, finding the mysteries of the universe on too open a display.

  Hardrune took his chair, glancing at Captain Raio. The officer waved a finger before his own face, signaling Hardrune that his glasses were still perched on his stubby nose. Hardrune’s eyebrows arched. Then, he nodded his understanding. He plucked the glasses away, folding and stowing them in a breast pocket. Ashere would only think the glasses a sign of weakness.

  The view screen showed a beautiful world of blue seas, brown and tan continents smudged with green, all wrapped in ribbons of cloud. The view was a punch in the gut, but Hardrune ignored it. This is not the time to be distracted. “Get me Ashere,” he said, deliberately leaving off her honorifics.

  The screen blin
ked. A new image filled it; a hall lined with mechamorph guardsmen. Its center was dominated by a high-backed throne set between a brace of multilevel holo-boards, giving Princess Ashere virtual control of all ship functions.

  She tapped a small square of light on a holo-board and her image swelled in size. Larger-than-life, eyes lit with a cold baleful fire, she spoke past a feral smile. “My dear Commander, it’s thoughtful of you to come all this way to pay your respects. I am in mourning still, or I would receive you in person.”

  “That’s all right, your highness. Who would not feel the loss of so great a lady as your honored mother? It is my pleasure to serve her will, in death as in life.”

  “Then you understand my desire to see that all goes smoothly in the succession of her heritage.”

  “Your mother’s throne is yours beyond dispute, though the Star has gone to another. Your world’s influence will now depend on its cybernetic service to the League.”

  “I do not know that I am ready for so drastic a shift of policy,” Ashere said.

  “Is your—grief—driving you toward madness, Princess?” Hardrune asked with mild solicitation. “I understand that emotions for a mechamorph are toys in a box that may be pulled out and played with, or packed away where they won’t interfere with serious matters. Perhaps you should not indulge them here and now.”

  The Princess’s cold smile seemed to widen beyond possibly. “I am grateful for your concern, but I know what I am doing. If any of the respect you held for my mother extends to her heir, you will let me handle affairs here.”

  “You may speak for the League, and welcome this world into our midst. I will not interfere with you unless circumstances compel me. I think we understand one another.”

  The Princess sighed theatrically. “All too well, Light Born.” The screen went dead. The image of the planet below returned. Somehow, it seemed darker—less vibrant. Hardrune stared at the screen, his mind sliding elsewhere. Finally, leaning sideways, he caught Raio’s attention.

  Hardrune’s voice was soft as he spoke confidentially. “Raio, you’ve supported me for many years, as I’ve served Queen Oshira from your ship. We’ve never had a conflict in our respective duties. But now that Ashere has taken her mother’s place—and has standing in the League—she dreams of empire, wanting to wrest the Star from its rightful Guardian. I can’t let that happen.”

  “I respect your judgment, commander. You always serve the greatest good. You have my backing, as I have the crew’s. Tell us where to point our guns, and when trouble comes, we shall join you in defending this world and its Guardian to the last man.”

  “Good. Now, there’s something you can do for me—recruitment! Use this downtime to entertain the other ship captains. Find out where they stand as well. Be discreet but don’t take too long.”

  “And what will you be doing, Sir?”

  “I’m going planet-side with the Light Born. We must find the Star’s new Guardian before Ashere does.”

  THREE

  Ashere endured the creep of nanoseconds as Commander Hardrune’s image faded and the view screen powered down. Then, her icy calm fractured. A shrill scream rang out. “Mitron! Where are you?”

  He emerged from behind her high-backed throne, circling. “I am here, Majesty-in-Glory.” He stopped before her, tall and sleek, steel limbs sheathed in white polymer that made his humanoid form look freshly exhumed and bloodless. His eyes were red glass, lit from within by electric force. He bowed smoothly and returned to attention.

  Ashere glowered. “The Light Born fool is intractable as always. I want to crush his skull, rip out his heart, and bath in his blood. I want to—”

  “He won’t matter if we find the new Guardian and reclaim the crystal.”

  Ashere leaned forward. “How is the search progressing?”

  “Sensors have traced the jewel to the West Coast of a land mass called North America, the province of California. Computer-sampled data culled from planetary transmissions indicates that this area is ruled by mutant life forms known as toons. Their leader, Milo Mouse, is worshiped by millions and inhabits a holy site known as Dizzyland where pilgrims are invited to wallow in wild excess.

  “We have tapped the planetary satellite network and are attempting a dialog. We want this rodent-god avatar to aid us in our search for the Guardian, but so far, the toon life-forms are acting remarkably obtuse. You’d think they’d never established diplomatic relations with a galactic power before.”

  Ashere’s eyes flared with an electric surge. “I had to lie concerning the extent of contact we’d made with this planet to keep the other ships out of my business. I have no authority over League ships without the crystal to back me. The only reason the League hasn’t sent its own ambassador to take charge is that it takes them forever to do the simplest thing.”

  “Cumbersome bureaucracies have their use,” Mitron said. “Anyway, we know where the Star fell to Earth, but not who has it. Its new Guardian—female as always—probably doesn’t even know the significance of the stone, or how to release its energy.”

  “We need to find her before that changes, while she’s still vulnerable, before the Light Born involve themselves further.”

  Mitron half-turned away, his gaze sweeping the far bulkhead. “That may be difficult. Once the stone has a carrier, it cloaks its quantum signature so it can’t be traced.”

  “I hate it when the universe gets difficult.” Ashere leaned back in her throne, staring through Mitron.

  He turned toward the throne and continued his report. “There are Galactic University faculty and student interns doing covert research on this world. They understand the language and customs. We can use them to help us.”

  “It seems a bother,” Ashere said. “Can we not just upload their research without their knowledge?”

  Mitron shook his head. “Easier said than done. The students feed the raw data to the advisors running the project, and they have a total lock-down on that information. There’s no off-world access link. The faculty doesn’t want anyone stealing their thunder before they get back to civilization to deliver their papers and publish their finding. You know how paranoid and cutthroat academic circles are. We could go down and muscle our way into their facilities, but…”

  “They’d go crying to the League, and the ships in orbit would get involved—right when I need their scrutiny the least. Perhaps, we could get the academics to support us by appealing to their greed. If I promise them unlimited funding…”

  Mitron said, “My little sister is part of the University Project. Why don’t I just have her hack their system and tight-beam the data to us?”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Yes, Princess.” Mitron paused. “There is something else we can do.”

  “Go on.”

  “A series of accidents or natural disasters can be arranged. The Star will act to save its threatened host whether she has fully bonded to it or not. This might drive her into the open.”

  Full-bodied, joyous, Ashere’s laugh echoed across the hall. “I approve, Mitron. Do not leave a trail back to us when setting off these disasters. And remember, time is no friend of ours. If you don’t turn the Guardian up in the next few planetary days, I will be forced to destroy this world, compelling the Star to find another owner.” She sighed heavily. “This is not an ideal solution; it will bring me into direct conflict with the League and the Light Born, but it will also prolong the game, and give us another chance at the Star.”

  “I shall be diligent and swift.” Mitron bowed, and vanished in a red half-shell of light as the ship’s computer skipped him through a sub-spatial dimension, depositing him on Earth.

  * * *

  Twila haunted the diamond-paned windows in the barren living room. She studied the outside—swaying willows, an iron gate, and the street beyond. Evening invaded by increments, the sky dimming. She didn’t need the input, having an internal clock where a human’s heart would be. Soon, she’d have to switch vision to in
frared mode, having no lights in the one bedroom. There was no need for furniture; she never had guests, never grew tired, and had no purpose beyond her work for the University. The kitchen area possessed a stove and refrigerator, but she had no use for them either. They’d come with the place.

  She turned from the window and walked to the center of the room. She knew just where the keyhole hung, having installed the tesseract point. The bridge-point was literally the size of a keyhole; you’d need more than its location to get into the extra-spacial dimension hidden here.

  Twila shimmered, a wet glossy look replacing her sloughing features. Her flesh rippled and blurred as she morphed into a quicksilver mound of protoplasm. She extended a tendril through the keyhole. The tip of her limb vanished. She fed substance through, her bulk shrinking rapidly. The last of her goopy muck arced upward, vanishing midair.

  Across the portal there was a blue shift of color values, but otherwise, the studio looked the same except for the high tech equipment that lined the walls. Twila’s sludginess stretched upward and returned to humanoid form.

  The security system blinked a red light urgently. A synthetic voice announced: “In-coming subspace matter-stream. Warning, warning!”

  Who could that be?

  She counted nano-seconds as a red globe formed before her. The light bubble burst, leaving another mechamorph in the room. Her face stretched with animation as dormant emotions fired to life. “Mitron!” She lunged at him, her face suffused with joy.

  He caught her up, lifting and spinning with her. She felt special as the only emotional contact her brother allowed himself. As the carpet returned beneath her, she leaned forward, bracing against him. She called to the computer, “Cancel alert.” To Mitron, she said, “What are you doing here? Is everything well?”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’m in-system with Princess Ashere.”