Star Angel: Rising (Star Angel Book 4)

by David G. McDaniel

  But they weren’t. Gently it descended, impossibly smooth on an invisible wave, like a magnet or something. Clearly the Kel could manipulate gravity in some fashion. Like a Maglev train, floating down …

  It landed. Immense landing pads touched the green and sank in, then sank more, the heavy struts scrunching upward into their recesses beneath its weight, and as whatever force held the craft aloft released and the full weight of it bore down the pads punched far into the ground. For a moment Drake wondered if it would punch through whatever underground utilities or other structures ran beneath … but everything held.

  “They’re here,” someone said in the silence. It was an absolute Captain Obvious statement, begging to be mocked—something, a joke, a wise-crack, anything—an impersonation of the little girl in Poltergeist, “They’re heeeere” at least—but it went entirely without comment.

  They were here.

  Drake roved the length of the vessel with his eyes. The Kel had no doubt chosen the Mall for its open area, but they’d sent no further communication letting anyone know anything.

  Holy shit was it big.

  “You sure you want to do this?” someone asked the President. The same guy who said “They’re here”. The President turned to that man, that high ranking, very intelligent official, looked him straight in the eye and …

  Laughed.

  A chuckle, at first, but as the absurdity of the notion took hold he let loose with a full-on belly laugh.

  Everyone just kind of stared at him. He sobered a bit.

  “Actually you’re right.” He turned to General Peterson, pretending to clear his head. “Call them up and reschedule. I think it would be better if we do this tomorrow.”

  No one laughed.

  “Um,” Drake scratched his head. “I’ve got plans.” He shrugged, apologetic. “Can we do Thursday?”

  Now a few of them cracked nervous smiles and the President nodded, grave, and Drake could see he appreciated his joining in on the funeral humor.

  “Well,” he turned to the others. “Can’t go without our specialist. Guess that means it’s now or never.”

  A few others tried to laugh. Nobody pulled it off very well.

  “Come on,” the President turned. “Let’s go meet our would-be conquerors.”

  **

  Heath squinted into the early morning sun, looking out across the ramp area to the airstrip beyond. No traffic, no planes moving or taxiing. It was a wide-open vista, a cool morning, and the hot cup of coffee in his hand steamed pleasantly in the crisp air.

  He looked up into the blue, cloudless sky, arching over his entire field of vision.

  Hard to believe there were aliens up there.

  “Lieutenant,” a voice called from the distance. It was Steve, their electronics expert, jogging over. Heath turned to him. Steve was that rare combination of extreme nerd and extreme operator. As high-speed as they came, one of the best Spec Ops warriors Heath knew—truly among the more capable members of that already elite class—while at the same time having an IQ of about 800. You could never stump the guy on any knowledge question, even trivia usually, and his ability to figure things out was uncanny. Why he was there, with them, out fighting the good fight when he could’ve—probably should’ve—been at MIT or something, teaching other smart people how to be smarter, Heath never understood. Steve loved doing what he did, though, and maybe that was enough.

  Heath took a sip of coffee as his friend ambled the last little bit across the wide-open ramp. Behind Steve stretched a giant hangar, framing him as he walked, tall black letters emblazoned across its entire width:

  ETERNAL VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.

  Steve joined him and Heath took another sip.

  “Found him.”

  Heath nodded. “Where was he? The cafeteria?” Steve had been looking for Pete, and Pete was always eating. They each needed to eat a lot, of course, as the intense physical demands of their missions typically required it—all of them were in fantastic shape by necessity—but Pete was the exception even to that rule. He was always eating.

  “That’s what I expected too. Actually he was in the shitter. Recognized his boots.”

  “That’s a long dump.” Heath took another sip. “He’s been gone an hour.”

  Steve shook his head. “I swear it sounds like he’s in there crying.”

  Now Heath lowered the cup.

  Of all of them Pete was the most emotional, there was no doubt—in both directions. Easily upset, easily excited. Not super bright, maybe even the opposite of Steve, but in every way that counted Pete was one of their top guys. Still, Heath had never known him to cry. And they’d been through a few ops bad enough Heath himself wanted to cry—and did, a little. Shed tears. Pete, never.

  Steve looked at him.

  “This is some crazy shit.”

  **

  “Shuttle coming across, lord.” The Kel officer monitoring the progress of the shore party informed the bridge.

  Kang looked to Voltan. The Praetor stood beside him at the highest point of the dreadnought’s bridge, hands behind his back and watching in silence as the shuttle approached. It carried the group of emissaries from Earth, having recently departed the destroyer sent to retrieve them. Currently that destroyer floated in the near distance, back among the fleet and hanging in orbit with the rest of the Kel warcraft. Poised, as were they all, with lethal grace above their eventual target.

  Voltan was unreadable. The eye patch only made him seem stronger, not weaker. Everything about the Kel commander enhanced his apparent strength. White hair pulled up in that tight tail that hung clear of his neck; chiseled features and pointy ears, pale skin flawless; those damn, precise lines drawn across his cheek. His shoulders were back, black armor too exquisitely fitted, too pristine. Voltan, like most of the Kel, was a perfection of the human form, as if the shape of humanity’s true potential realized. And maybe that’s what the Kel were. Maybe they were human once. Kang himself was the opposite, like a de-evolution of the same form. As if he and Voltan were opposite sides of the human image; Voltan perfection, Kang a ruined travesty. All he knew was that Voltan and his towering perfection annoyed him. Kang needed to exert his strength. Take back the control he felt slipping. Everything that got him to that point, every bit of physical superiority, the Icon, every unique card he held was useless under these circumstances. He felt trapped and he suspected Voltan, clever Voltan, had worked to reinforce that feeling at every turn. To pin him down. Keep him reined in.

  On screen the approaching shuttle passed from view as it headed toward the dreadnought. No change was made to the viewer. As soon as it was gone from sight Voltan turned.

  “Clear the rest of the hangar,” he said and headed off the bridge, not bothering to acknowledge Kang in any way. He didn’t invite Kang; neither could he stop him. And so Kang followed like a child, taking a bigger step to keep up, and wondered at once why he didn’t just kill Voltan. Kill them all, rush below and kill the arriving humans and issue demands to both the Kel and the humans and rule them with his overwhelming might.

  Clear of the bridge he and Voltan strode down the hall alone, arriving at a lift to the target hanger and getting in.

  This was all part of Voltan’s plan. Probably even allowing himself to be alone with Kang. There was nothing guards could do anyway. Voltan knew Kang would do nothing. He also knew the humans would do nothing. The humans had been screened at the destroyer and so they had no weapons nor guards of their own. And so Voltan went to them alone. The bay had been cleared in advance of their arrival. There was no ceremony, no extra unneeded personnel. There was to be no coddling propriety, no making the humans feel more important than they were. Just an empty bay, wherein the shuttle would arrive and the humans would witness the might of the dreadnought and the forces it represented. The Praetor’s intention was to give the humans nothing. To make them wonder why they’d even asked for an audience—indeed, to make them question why the Kel had even bothered to f
etch them in the first place.

  Much as Kang despised Voltan he did at least appreciate his handling of this.

  The lift reached the destination hangar and the door opened, letting them out into the large, open space. Kang followed Voltan, looking about the stark metal interior. Lit in green, buttressed and giving off the full sense of just how impossible it would be to bring even one of these mighty starships down. A voice filled the interior, announcing the arrival of the shuttle outside. Kang listened to the translation on his device, other sounds resounding in the cavernous space as the shuttle was brought aboard beyond the far airlocks. Moments later, even as Voltan continued walking across the expansive floor, one of the wide interior doors moved aside, exposing the blackness of space without, curve of the Earth glimmering blue-white just along the bottom edge, lending further scale to the setting. The shuttle was perched on a moving table in the outer lock. It slid in and thunked into place as the giant door closed behind, shutting off the view—just as Voltan reached proximity and stopped. It was a choreography Kang was sure had not been so precisely intended, but nevertheless he was impressed with its execution. The shuttle locked to a stop in its spot in the same instant Voltan brought his heels together and stood. A perfect distance from the vessel to greet the arrivals. Kang stopped beside him. Inched forward; enough to leave it ambiguous, at least by positioning, who was truly in charge. He squared his shoulders and wondered what Voltan expected him to do. Wondered if he made Voltan nervous, a wild variable that could throw off any course of action Voltan otherwise intended.

  Kang surely hoped so. Finding a small measure of satisfaction with the conundrum that uncertainty must present.

  The forward shuttle door hissed open and, moments later, the first humans emerged. Tentative, followed by the rest, those in turn by the shuttle’s compliment of Kel warriors; all in full battle armor, bootfalls heavy on the metal planking as they followed down the ramp and gathered behind the small human assembly. Seven humans had come, and Kang noted at once their diversity was beyond even that of the Venatres. There was even one among them of the Gyo Tai, the Emperor’s so-called noble race—as Kang once was when he was human. And now that he saw this one, standing there right in front of him—from the very place the Emperor claimed was Heaven—it confirmed for him once and for all that the Emperor had been no god.

  Which of course made him admire Kagami a little more, for making an entire world believe that he was.

  A short standoff ensued. Voltan did not speak. He merely stood there, facing them, again with that unreadable, stoic expression. Waiting. Kang tried not to fidget, his overblown strength making it hard not to do that at any time, ever. He always had to be moving, if only a little, and right then he did not want to appear to have less bearing than Voltan. Did not want to come off as a stupid, wiggly bug in a bottle. And so he forcibly held himself still, watching the humans, amused with how frightening this whole experience must be for them. Aboard an alien starship. A big one, obviously very powerful. Something for which they had no answer. Facing an alien and a demon. Alone.

  To their credit the President, and in turn the rest of them, got it together.

  “Thank you for bringing us aboard,” said the human leader. Voltan said nothing. The President looked around; asked: “Can you understand us? I’m assuming you have translation.”

  Voltan raised a hand and made a small signal. He spoke in his native Kel and an artificial voice in the giant chamber began translating. He asked simply: “Do you bring notice of your surrender?”

  “As we said before we will not surrender.” The President’s voice was now also translated. “Change is inevitable. We understand that. People die, old systems go, but humanity grows stronger. We’re willing to have this change, even drastic change, but humanity will not become your subjects. We will not be slaves.”

  Voltan continued to stare at the small group of humans; impassive, showing no sign of what he might be thinking. How he might be planning to respond.

  “I want what’s best for humanity,” the President went on. “I’m sure you want what’s best for your people. There’s no doubt you outgun us. We have to assume you could invade and take our world by force. We already do assume that. I’m here to work out an alternative. Let’s find out exactly what you want and come up with an arrangement—”

  “We want your surrender,” said Voltan, interrupting the translation with his own. “We demand it.”

  The President regrouped his train of thought. Continued as if he’d not been interrupted. “We can work out resources. You’ve got space travel. We stake no claim to the rest of the worlds in this system. There are an abundance of resources here. We could assist in their mining or collection … as long as there’s participation. We have land, plenty of land. We can work out land, space.” It was clear the President was struggling to imagine what else the Kel might want. It was also clear he was beginning to see his efforts were futile.

  “If you want your people to live,” said Voltan, “surrender. If you want them to die, resist. The choice is simple enough.”

  The President exhaled. “Why did you bring us here?”

  “I thought perhaps you might change your mind.”

  “Listen, we know what we’re up against. The question is do you know what you’re up against.”

  Voltan frowned. “Threats hardly seem your best course of action.”

  Clearly the President had reached his wit’s end. Barely into the conversation and his exasperation was flooding to the fore. “You’re not listening to our efforts to come up with alternatives. We’re trying to—”

  “You’re wasting my time. We’ve been very clear. We’re giving you a chance to surrender without conflict. It is you that does not seem to be listening.”

  Now the President lost what little composure he had left. “We’re not going to surrender!”

  The computer translation conveyed no emotion, merely repeating the words. Kang smiled a little at the man’s frustration, mocked by the computer’s flat delivery.

  Voltan paused. “Then we are done.”

  Kang could almost smell the President’s desperate failure. The man came with the idea he could make things go differently, now he was faced with the reality that had been a lost cause from the start. A wasted effort. There was no solution; the Kel would listen to no alternatives. They presented one choice and one only: surrender or be taken by force. The will of the Kel would be imposed. All else was formality.

  “We’re not done.” The President tried harder to assert himself. “I’m not willing to—”

  “You will be returned as promised.” Voltan gazed levelly at him, then turned and began walking away, bootsteps echoing on the hard metal floor.

  Kang found himself a little startled by the sudden departure, having expected Voltan to stand and watch as the humans were sent off. He wavered; held himself from following after too abruptly, not wanting to look as if reacting to it; chose instead to level his own stare at the humans, one by one, as if that had been his intention, then he too turned on a heel and began the march across the wide, empty metal cavern.

  Behind him he heard the Kel begin herding the humans back aboard the shuttle amid protests. Their voices faded quickly in the open space, the translator off. He understood them. Just a handful of humans making noise.

  Empty, meaningless pleas.

  CHAPTER 13: THINGS GET WORSE

  Galfar watched the girl twist slowly side to side, turning beneath the thin white sheet. She was deep in the fever state. He leaned and pressed another cool, damp rag to her forehead; held it there, then put it to her cheeks and neck.

  It was getting worse, not better.

  He took his staff from where it leaned against the cot and hobbled over to the bucket of water he had cooling by the door in the breeze. There he wet the cloth and wrung it. For a moment he paused, in the shade of the doorway, looking out toward the village below. It was a warm day, a beautiful day, clear blue skies and the sounds of
children playing far below drifting on the air. The bustle of the market could be heard beyond that, on the other side a collection of huts, the day’s frenzy of bargaining in full swing. Early each morning merchants came from nearby towns to populate the bazaar, bringing to it their goods and services. Bringing it to life. Situated there in the little cove, nestled between two mountain ranges, it was the Itchka Market; the Hub, the center of commerce for miles around.

  Today was a day like any other.

  Slowly he turned and went back to the cot. Carefully he leaned his staff back against it and continued the cooling of his charge.

  The girl just kept getting hotter. Mumbling. Entire conversations spoken beneath her breath. He held the rag steady against her forehead as her arms and legs shifted and twitched.

  Fearing she was fading away.

  There was more at work here than simple fever. Fever was merely the body’s manifestation of whatever gripped her. She was not simply ill. This Galfar could see. The body was the servant of the individual, the being, the true self, and this body suffered greatly beneath whatever torment the girl endured. He wondered how much more her body could take. Bodies had a tendency to be frail things.

  And as he thought of this he glanced himself over. Frail indeed. Old and breaking was more like it, in his case. Once his body had been robust. Once he, too, had been young. Full of life. Hard to believe.

  Too bad they don’t last.

  Frail though they were, however, bodies were key. Conduits; a connection to time and space. Lose it and one lost one’s orientation with the world. Galfar had no solutions if that happened, and he doubted this girl did either.

  She could not be allowed to pass on.