Zero Star

by Chad Huskins

  “The later civilization must have revered their knowledge of the Strangers’ movements above all other knowledge,” Kalder said.

  “Exactly. One can imagine that the Worshippers saw the mystery of the Strangers as the single most significant thing in the cosmos, their need to understand perhaps becoming the greatest endeavor of their time.”

  “A Crusade?” Kalder said.

  Moira looked at him, and smiled briefly. “One might say that.”

  “One might,” he agreed.

  “So you believe Worshipper Theory is the more likely answer?” she asked.

  “Of the theories proposed, yes.”

  Moira’s eyes narrowed. “You have a different theory?”

  Kalder said nothing.

  “Senator?”

  Kalder was thinking about how to best explain it, but just then Julian walked over to them.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said. “But there’s been an interesting bit of news coming in from Second Fleet. Primacy Intelligence is saying that they’ve got a survivor from the Kennit campaign aboard who found something on the surface, from inside the Brood hive specifically. It looks like another Scroll, sir.”

  Kalder and Moira exchanged looks. He was suddenly invigorated, and the flare in her eyes showed that she had totally forgotten about the corpse on the floor.

  “Miss Holdengard,” he said. “Do you find that as strange as I do?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Very strange. So strange, in fact, that my first instinct is to call a liar whoever told you that, Julian. The Brood have never shown an interest in the Scrolls, nor in any Stranger site, nor in anything approaching what we would call scholarly interest. In anything. All they do is invade, kill, conquer, take a few years to cultivate their hives, and invade again.”

  Kalder looked at Julian. “The person who found the Scroll, who is he?”

  : SDFA Lord Ishimoto

  They had a name for it. Being called to the carpet. It was whenever a soldier had finished his psych eval, and had been summoned to the Office of Military Affairs, to face the Visquain: five senior military officials whose job, among other things, was to go through the motions of an after-action review. AARs were usually conducted with one’s whole team present, but in special cases commanders were called to stand alone and give their account. When they did, they stood on a wide, oval piece of carpet, upon which a Golden Seal of Second Fleet was emblazoned, with wide, veined wyrm wings sprouting from its side, hovering over the Sigil of the Republic, which was three blood-red stars contained within a silver chevron.

  Lyokh had been called to the carpet. He was forced to stand there on the seal in a dim room with screens lining the walls and scrolling fleet data. He was made to watch HUD footage play silently in the corner. The footage was from his own helmet recorder, taken from his time in Kennit’s hive. He looked at it all, wondering at the scale of it, watching the shaky images of his own hands, his own sword skewering octopus-things and hacking maggots to pieces.

  Lyokh was surprised that he didn’t even remember half of what he was seeing, it was like footage taken from someone else’s life, a special effects reel of some movie.

  The images evoked certain emotions, however. Certain sounds. He saw his hand making directional chops as he ordered his people to move up, get behind cover, or rally to a specific point. He saw dead faces: Egleston, Ruvio, Davisjo. He tried not to think of their bodies being mulched and repurposed to become part of the Brood legacy. He tried.

  “Sergeant Lyokh?”

  The voice pulled him out of his reverie. “Yes, sir?”

  General Quoden looked short on patience. The four-star general was seated at the dead center of the crescent-shaped compristeel table, he and the rest of the Visquain boring their eyes into him. Quoden leaned forward, and said, “Can you please answer the question?”

  Lyokh cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat it?”

  The General eyed him for a moment. “Your team’s RO reported comms interference, so you were cut off from High Command, and you took immediate command of Gold Wing once Lieutenant Lucerne, Second Lieutenant Judun, and Sergeant Egleston were killed. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  “And you never relinquished command of your unit, even once you found surviving officers of higher rank?”

  “That’s not true. We came across Commanders Davisjo and Ruvio, but once they both died…well, it fell on me again.”

  “But that’s not entirely true either, is it, Sergeant?” said Rear Admiral Vickers. She rested her chin on her fist, looking at him thoughtfully. “You came across a number of highly-trained officers in those tunnels, from captains to lieutenants, even a lieutenant-colonel, and yet even after Davisjo and Ruvio died, you never abdicated your role as leader of the group.”

  Lyokh nodded. He wasn’t going to allow them to bully him. Not now. Not after all he had survived. The Visquain had been trying to do that for the last half hour, but he was finished with that.

  He saw a flash of Eulekk, impaled by electrified spikes. He saw the image of Lucerne being turned to bloody paste. He saw it more clearly in his head than on the HUD footage.

  It emboldened him. He had not fought and died with those men to come here and have his actions picked apart by people who had not been anywhere near the fighting.

  If the Brood had not killed him, what chance did a committee have?

  The wall, he thought.

  “The group named me doyen,” he said. “It happened right there in the chamber where we found the scroll. I didn’t ask for the honor, but they gave it to me. After Ruvio and some others died, what was left of Gold Wing seemed all right with me in charge. When we met up with Red and Blue Wingers, they heard my people calling me doyen. They asked questions. Why was I doyen? Why was I in charge? My people told the story, showed the footage of what happened in that chamber where Davisjo ate it.” He shrugged. “I became group leader.”

  “Were you comfortable with command?” asked Brigadier Chang-shu.

  “Sir?”

  “Were you comfortable with men and women giving their fates over to you?”

  Lyokh didn’t know if he understood the pertinence of the question. AARs were held to determine the specifics of actions, the reasoning behind certain tactics, and determining whether or not the rules of engagement had been properly followed. They were not for going over one’s emotions. That was what psych evals were for.

  “I didn’t ‘feel’ anything about it,” said Lyokh. “Just…we all did what we had to do.”

  “But you must have gotten something out of it, surely,” said General Quoden, stepping back in. “You did it so well.”

  Lyokh felt uncomfortable here. He didn’t know where they were going with this.

  “I just pushed forward until there was no more forward,” he said.

  Quoden nodded. He looked unconvinced.

  Major T’luk spoke up, “Was there any moment when you thought about giving up?”

  Again, more questions about his emotions, and so far not a lot of questions about actual tactics and strategies used.

  Lyokh looked at T’luk, an old bearded man whose face appeared to be chiseled in granite.

  “Never,” he said. And It was true. There were plenty of times when Lyokh had felt okay surrendering to the inevitability of death, but that was different than just giving up. He had intended to fight until he died, and, truth be told, here he was two days after leaving the Kennit System and he still felt as though he was living a dream. It was like he was still back there on that battlefield, lying dead or dying, his last dreams being about an after-action review with the Visquain asking absurd questions.

  Advance Colonel Rikken, who was the oldest of the Visquain by far, waved his hands to interact with a holopane, which appeared to have a copy of Lyokh’s service record slowly scrolling down it. “Sergeant Lyokh, you started with the Republican Army as a grunt, but then tried out for officer training. Y
ou were doing well for a while, it seems, but then reverted back to the grunt’s life.” Rikken splayed his hands out, inviting an answer. “Why?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t see a future in it for me, sir,” Lyokh said.

  “Why?” Rikken asked again.

  “Because I do well when I’m receiving orders, not so much when I’m giving them.”

  “Yet your actions inside the hive would suggest otherwise.”

  Lyokh gave it some thought. “Things were…different down there, sir. Hazy. The lines between what we were and weren’t were blurred. One moment I had to be leader, so I was. The next minute, I wasn’t the leader. Then, at the end, I was again. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but that’s the only way I know how to explain it.”

  “You discovered some hidden talents, then,” said Chang-shu.

  Lyokh looked at the Brigadier. “I suppose I found something,” he allowed.

  “Tell me, Sergeant,” said General Quoden, “how often do you train with your field sword?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t really keep track of it.”

  “Best guess.”

  “Maybe…once or twice a week?”

  “And how often with your other weapons? Rifle, pulser, launchers?”

  “Almost every day.”

  “Yet you showed great proficiency with the sword. And there were times when you had plenty of ammo, but rushed headlong into battle with just the sword.”

  Lyokh gave another shrug. “I guess I was trying to conserve ammo,” he said. “But also…”

  “Yes?”

  “Also it just seemed like the right thing to do. I used the field sword in the chamber because I had to, and that’s how I was granted the honor of doyen.”

  “And you kept using it afterward,” said Quoden. “Even though you had more ammunition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To inspire them.”

  It wasn’t a question. General Quoden seemed to have been circling this concept throughout the whole proceedings. They all had. Lyokh looked at the faces of each of the Visquain, the highest military authority in Second Fleet. He nodded. “Yes. All right. I suppose I did.”

  “And would you do it again?” asked Vickers.

  He looked at the rear admiral. “Without hesitation, ma’am. If that’s what it took to rally the group, then that’s what I would do.”

  All five of the Visquain exchanged glances. There were a couple of whispers, a few nods.

  “The scroll you found,” said Quoden. “In your report, you said you had no idea what the Brood might want with it. Have you thought about it any further, perhaps remembered something else that would be of use?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Visquain considered him in silence for a moment.

  General Quoden finally said, “Your psych eval shows you’re handling it pretty well. The loss of so many fellow soldiers. Are you doing well, Sergeant, or are you just good at hiding it? Be honest.”

  “If I’m good at hiding it then I must be doing well,” Lyokh said.

  Quoden nodded silently. A smile touched the corners of T’luk’s lips.

  Then, Quoden leaned over to Chang-shu to have a whispering conference. Rikken continued perusing Lyokh’s file. T’luk leaned forward, reading something on his personal holotab. Vickers just stared at him.

  Finally, Quoden came back with, “We’re satisfied with everything we’ve heard today, and we thank you for your time. I’m going to recommend you at this time for the Imperator’s Medal of Valor. You and your whole group, if that’s fine with you.”

  Lyokh felt struck, and he almost refused the honor at once. He did not particularly like glory or attention, and would not enjoy any special ceremony. But then he realized his refusal might reflect poorly on the group, and perhaps they would not receive their own well-deserved medals, or they might feel it necessary to turn it down also, to show solidarity with him. He felt stuck.

  The wall, he thought.

  “I would be honored, sir,” he said.

  “Good, because you’re not allowed to refuse. We’re also putting in for a formal request that you become the new Gold Wing team leader,” said Quoden. He smiled. “And you’re not allowed to refuse that, either.”

  Feuding emotions vied for supremacy inside of him, first honor, then shock, then uncertainty, and finally dismay. Lyokh shook his head. “Sir, I…”

  “The words you’re looking for are, ‘I’m honored, sir, thank you.’”

  “Sir…”

  “The story from the others is that you organized the team well in those tunnels,” Quoden said. “And the vids back that up. You checked in with your people, you divvied up responsibilities, you checked on supplies exactly like a commander would, you formed a command coterie, and you helped develop new tactics. Tactics that worked.”

  “Sir, there is no Gold Wing left. There’s no one left to lead.”

  “Nonsense. There’s you, and your other cohorts. What were their names, Heeten, Meiks, Takir-something?”

  “They’re from different wings—”

  “All of whom are also dead, or mostly. We’re reforming where we can, filling in gaps as best we can. We need a Gold Wing. You’ll be getting some other survivors, twenty or so. We’ve got some fresh recruits coming in from the training facility on Andovarik, they should be enough to shore up your numbers.” He shrugged and added, “Depending on how it goes at Widden.”

  That smacked of hedging one’s bet on Second Fleet’s chances in the Phanes System.

  Brigadier Chang-shu leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the table in front of him. “You’ll be getting a sit-rep for Phanes tonight, I suggest you read it. PI has an intelligence packet on all the salient information on Widden, we’ll get that to you, as well. You should familiarize yourself with the High Priestess and her followers, it will be crucial to mission success.”

  “But, sir, with respect, as we all just discussed, I never completed officer training.”

  “I only got this job because the last general died,” Quoden said, gathering his things and standing up. His smile broadened. “Welcome to the Fall of Man, doyen. Where everyone is unfairly promoted.”

  LYOKH WAS MORE comfortable being hit in the face than he was trying to suss out the meaning of the fist, or the reason for the conflict, or how he felt about being hit. That’s why being called to the carpet made him so uncomfortable. It was anathema to soldering. Sparring seemed like the most sensible thing to clear his head right now.

  The Tamer captain came at him full bore, all muscle and youthful spirit. He held his sword double-fisted, and swung with one huge, chopping motion. Lyokh shuffle-stepped backwards, just to get a get a bit of distance, then turn-stepped to the left and let the kid overshoot him. The kid, to his credit, recovered quickly and chased him. Their training swords, dull but still heavy, clanged and echoed loudly throughout the training room.

  Others in the room stopped what they were doing, and craned their necks around workout machines to see what they were missing.

  The Tamer was a big man. Bigger than Lyokh by almost a head. He was fond of slashes, but had not realized the truth of thrusts. Thrusts were deadly. Slashing never killed anybody, not unless you put a dozen or more into someone’s key areas. Thrusting pierced arteries and organs. Thrusting killed.

  Still, the kid had power, and speed. Their exchange was fast and fierce.

  Slash, slash, parry, thrust, parry, slash, block, parry, slash, push-step, thrust…

  On and on it went, with Lyokh staying on the defensive. He wanted to see what the kid had. He also needed to wear him out.

  He kept out of range by footwork, which actually was his best skill set. Herodinsk, the ship’s blademaster, had taught Lyokh thirty-nine of the Forty-Seven Steps, and Lyokh had absorbed them with the thirst of a prodigy.

  Lyokh was good at changing levels, There were four levels to the Forty-Seven Steps—standing, kneeling, sitting, and lying down. Standing had the most power
and mobility, obviously, but kneeling often threw one’s opponent off. You didn’t want to stay there too long, but a few seconds working from a crouched or kneeling position, while attacking upwards, could prime one’s opponent for a good upward thrust.

  He threw the kid off with this unorthodox approach. Then the kid caught him off-guard with a quick stroke downwards. Lyokh ducked and threw himself into a forward roll, smashing into the kid’s legs and knocking him over. He sprang back up just as the kid performed a beautiful kip-up, returning to his feet.

  The kid wasted no time, and came at him furiously. Their bare chests glistened with the effort they were expending, muscles and iron thews rippling as they met each attack and performed counters.

  A few times, the kid’s blade came awfully close to scoring a hit on Lyokh’s arms and legs. The kid grinned. He was having fun with this, not worried at all.

  Then, Lyokh saw his moment. The Tamer captain let his guard drop too low, and when their blades met again, Lyokh performed a guissard, sliding his blade down the length of his opponent’s. He smacked the kid’s right hand with enough power that he saw the pain writ on his face. Sensing that he had loosened his opponent’s grip, Lyokh hooked his blade around the quillons of the kid’s sword, flung it wide, and nearly disarmed him.

  Only the kid’s right hand came free, and he tried to recover, swinging back wildly with one hand. Lyokh met the blade, forming a giant cross of compristeel, then performed a kambiada, pressing his forearm against the kid’s. Keeping contact with the kid, forearm to forearm, he rolled his blade around so that it smacked him in the temple.

  The training sword hit with a loud thwack! that made several onlookers jolt. A couple people laughed appreciatively. Lyokh then saw fire in his opponent’s eyes. The kid, predictably, took the laughter as aimed at him. He was wrong, the tap on his temple hadn’t been meant to embarrass him, but Lyokh did not have time to explain that as the kid threw down his blade and charged at him.