by Trevor Wyatt
If there existed a unifying all-powerful body in Terran Union, one that ensured law and order in the worlds and colonies within the Union, then it stood to reason that the greater galaxy should have one. Jeryl realized, then, that it was his responsibility to ensure that everyone agreed to a cease-fire.
At this point, it was the best option for everybody.
Ashley walked into his office, Dr. Lannigan and Commander Taylor in tow.
“What’s your status?” he asked them.
“Repairs are proceeding slowly, sir,” Ashley said. She motioned towards the two people she came with and continued, “They have something to say about our proposed line of attack.”
Jeryl frowned.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a proposed line of attack?”
He realized that he should be discussing this issue with his senior officers. Recently, he had been making a lot of decisions on the fly without first consulting them. It went against Armada policy and culture, though it wasn’t exactly illegal—a captain was well able to conduct the business of the ship in whatever way he deemed fit. But he didn’t want to be that kind of captain.
“Sir, I have thought about our predicament,” Dr. Lannigan said. “We were merely wondering what you intend to do about it. We’re currently running an interception course. I hardly think that running into the middle of battle and yelling that the Sonali aren’t the cause of the war and that you’re not going to be firing on them is going to bring peace.”
He snapped back to attention and looked up at the doctor. Something about how he said it made Jeryl’s brain fire up.
“You’re not actually considering that, are you?” Ashley said with a cautionary tone.
“I meant it as a sarcastic joke, Captain,” Dr. Lannigan affirmed. But Jeryl wasn’t looking at them. He didn’t want to hear their doubt. There was only one thing he cared about right now.
He didn’t have a plan, and now he did…as bad of a plan as it might be.
Even though he was all for integrative decision-making, there were some decisions that were the captain’s prerogative. This was one of these decisions.
He looked at Ashley, then Lannigan and finally Taylor.
“You’re dismissed. Report to CNC and ask all CNC crew not present to report there immediately.”
He picked up his tablet and looked up the report from navigation. According to the navigator’s estimations, they were going to be materializing in the center of the battlefield, just few minutes before the Terran Armada arrived. He looked for their ETA and saw that they had less than twenty minutes before they arrived at their destination.
That was exactly how long he had to fine-tune his plans.
He returned to the CNC with only three minutes to spare. He sat in his command chair and took a look at his senior officers and other members of the CNC crew. He could see the strain in their bodies and the tiredness in their eyes. They had been working tirelessly for the past couple of weeks. A lot of these people were with Jeryl when the war started, and they were still with him now as it neared its completion.
He knew that even though his decisions could be reckless, he would always have their support. He knew that even though some might disagree with his orders, they would always carry them. He didn’t know if captains worried about mutiny happening in other ships, like the incident that caused the Armada to send out Captain’s Guards; he did know, however, that mutiny was an impossibility on his ship.
“Taylor, can you get me an open channel communication to both Sonali and Armada ship? Broadcast to all ships at once?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “It’s going to take a few minutes to reconfigure the communications arrays to broadcast at two frequencies at the same time.”
“You have one minute,” he said.
She nodded and went to work, her hands flying over the console.
He looked up at the view screen as the navigator announced, “We’re dropping out of FTL factor seven in ten seconds.”
He went ahead to count down and then they appeared at the edge of the star system containing the Sonali planet, a purple sphere glinting below them.
“Sir, I’m picking up a large number of Sonali and Armada ships headed to each other from opposite sides…and we’re right in the middle of them.”
Dr. Lannigan announced in a crisp voice.
“They will be upon us in less than two minutes,” the tactical officer said.
“Moira!” he said, “Now!”
“Channel open, sir, please proceed.”
“This is Captain Jeryl Montgomery of The Seeker,” he said out loud.
“I call for a ceasefire. I repeat, I call for a ceasefire between the Sonali and humans. This war shouldn’t have been fought in the first place. Ceasefire, I repeat, ceasefire!”
“Sir, we are getting an incoming transmission from Admiral Flynn,” Moira announced.
“Put him through and keep the line open,” he replied.
“Jeryl, what the fuck is going on?” The Admiral asked me. His eyes were wide and tired, dark bags under them.
“Sir, I have hard evidence that the Sonali weren’t responsible for the destruction of The Mariner. This whole war was predicated on a lie. This is an open channel and all Sonali vessel can hear me. I will no longer be firing upon Sonali vessels. They are innocent.”
Well… that should really make everyone sit up and take notice, thought the Captain.
Admiral Flynn
There were perks that came along with being named Area Admiral, and one of them was the view from Admiral Flynn’s sumptuous new office in Armada Command on New Washington. He oversaw operations on the Edoris, Malvelis, and Erdune Sectors.
Back on Earth, he had a hole in the wall, high rank or no high rank. Of course, in those days they didn’t have time to think about things like that. They were too busy fighting the blue-faces. Back then he wouldn’t have had the time to even glance out a window if he had one. But here they were, two years after the war’s end, and it was back to pondering things like, “Cherry or oak furniture?” and “Taupe or white walls?”
Admiral Flynn supposed that was good in a way. But he let his aide make those kinds of decisions, because honestly, he didn’t give a gonch’s ass what color the walls were. He was happy to have walls at all. He thought most people are.
They’d been rebuilding their infrastructure following the cessation of hostilities. He found it discomforting and aggravating to be working side by side, in some cases, with Sonali engineers on these reconstruction projects here on New Washington. On Earth, layers of bureaucracy would insulate him from contact with them. Now, here, he had to suck it up. He had to work with them, but he didn’t have to like them.
New Washington was one of the most Earthlike of the colony worlds, a real showcase of urban and agricultural planning. There used to be a city on Earth called Brasilia, the capital of the old South American nation Brazil. It was built in the jungle from the ground up and was supposed to be a shining example of modernity.
It almost worked. Brasilia ended up like most cities of the time: a combination of magnificent civic structures and poverty-stricken neighborhoods you wouldn’t want to walk in at night. As an observer commented at the time, “Nothing dates faster than people's fantasies about the future.”
But, Flynn must admit to himself, they’ve done a helluva job here on New Washington.
This star system was the hub of trade routes linking the Inner Core and the Farther Reaches, which were the regions beyond the Outer Colonies, the old limits of Terran-controlled space, to Sonali territory and the inhabited systems beyond. It was a genuine gateway world, an economic and political powerhouse in the fastest growing sectors of space in the Union, and so it needed to look like one.
Given its clement climate, New Washington was perfectly suited to be an interstellar showpiece, which it was; but it had paradoxically become the most industrialized of the colony worlds.
What he saw from his window on the 115th
floor was an unbroken stretch of spires and towers. New Washington was the only city on the planet—mainly because the city took up most of the available land on the planet. The city built up as it was built out, and commerce and industrialism reigned no matter which way he turned. From space it looked like a glittering white jewel in a setting of green. There was nothing like it anywhere in the galaxy.
Flynn saw a Wesallian yacht pass majestically overhead. The Wesallians were but one of the 97 races of extraterrestrials they had met in the past eight years since First Contact with the Sonali. He couldn’t say they knew any of them as well as they knew the Sonali—a knowledge born of war, of course, so he was glad they hadn’t gotten to know the others that way.
Their scientists had lifetimes of information to parse and study. Advanced medical knowledge and improved FTL travel were only two of the areas that had seen enormous development. The corpers were delighted, too, because vast new markets had opened up for them, leading to untold wealth.
All in all, the Union was seeing peaceful days, for the most part. Oh, there were a few border skirmishes, the odd uprising here and there, and there were always pirates that needed to be dealt with, but overall, old dogs like him hadn’t got a lot to do these days.
Which was why he was here on New Washington, pushing papers and pressing the flesh as a diplomat. It was not a position he particularly enjoyed, but he supposed he would get used to it in time.
His door chimed and Flynn turned to see Admiral Jeryl Montgomery walking in.
“Hello, Admiral!” he said. They shook hands warmly. “Jeryl, it’s good to see you.”
“Thanks, Howard,” the old captain said. Flynn knew Jeryl was still a little bit uncomfortable using his given name, but he insisted. The older admiral still outranked him, but not by a lot. They were both at the upper levels of command, and they shared campaigns and heartbreak all throughout the war. They’d been through too much together to not use first names—in private, anyway.
“How's Ashley?” he asked, taking a couple of glasses and a bottle of genuine Kentucky bourbon out of his desk.
He asked this while he poured. Flynn knew the answer, because he made it his business to keep tabs on both of them. But he was drawing the new admiral out.
He took a healthy drink before replying. “She’s Captain Gavin now, serving aboard The Seeker,” he said, and then sighed. “It happens to be in orbit around New Washington right now, so we’ll have some time together before she has to ship out. We don’t see each other very often these days, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to hear that, son.”
“Thanks. It’s put a strain on the marriage.”
“Do you ever think of having children?”
He laughed, and Flynn detected a rueful tinge to it.
“I don’t think that’s in the cards for us, unless we do it by surrogates, and then who’d be raising the kids?”
He shrugged. “Hired help. That’s not how we’d want to do it. Anyway, we’ve got time to think about it.”
Flynn made a noncommittal noise that hid the stab of pity he felt for Jeryl. He knew how hard it was to maintain a life dedicated for serving one’s race. Now, he was learning the bitterness that came with no longer being needed in that capacity. But he wouldn’t tell Jeryl about that. He would find that out for himself one day.
“So tell me about the negotiations,” he said. Flynn knew he had been working tirelessly this past year to create what was being called a Galactic Council. It would receive a formal name once it got out of orbit. These years after the war had seen such an increase in trade and contact with other races that a special body needs to be created to oversee it all, as well as the immigration of aliens into the Union. There were, after all, many worlds in Union-controlled space that were unsuitable for human colonization—too hot, too cold—but perfect for the needs of non-humans. The humans had no objection to them developing unused real estate, but they needed to keep an eye on what they were doing.
Jeryl’s nascent council was designed, in part, to fill that need. A great many people were excited about it.
For the first time, he smiled.
“I think they’re going well,” Jeryl said. “Quite well.”
Flynn poured some more bourbon, as they seemed to have finished the first round.
“I’m pleased to hear you say that.”
And he was; not so much for the council itself—though it will be a great help—but for him.
“Thank you,” he said. “The final papers should be ready for signing within a fortnight, standard time.”
He swirled the liquor in his glass. “You know, Howard, sometimes it seems to me as if it was only last week that we met the Sonali. And then discovered the Nakra. And all the others.”
Flynn nodded. “Our lives have changed, in ways we never could have imagined. Ten years ago, we were alone in the universe, as far as we knew.”
“We’ve learned a great deal since then,” he said. “I like to think that we have matured as a species.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps. I agree that both the Sonali and we recognized the errors of our ways. Neither side was entirely good or bad. I didn’t see that for a long time.”
“If we hadn’t unmasked what the Nakra had done, then Lord only knows what might have happened…that day.”
For their trouble, Nakra space had been cordoned off. They set robot stations to patrols its limits, warning off would-be intruders. No one wanted anything like that to happen again.
“Enough happened,” Jeryl said, biting off his words. The Admiral knew Jeryl felt personally responsible for much of what happened, though Flynn had assured him more than once that it wasn’t his fault.
If anything, Jeryl was a hero. The man who first met the Sonali, who led some of humanity’s greatest campaigns against them. The man who defended his people, who uncovered the secret of who destroyed The Mariner. And then, he was the man who ended the war.
Every time Flynn closed his eyes he still saw that day when Jeryl brought The Seeker in the middle of the Sonali and Terran fleets. Said that he would not fire on the Sonali planet. Shared his scans of the Nakra.
It took the Terran captains in Flynn’s fleet by surprise. They were ready to bring down The Seeker. But then everyone was surprised when the Sonali powered their weapons down. After all, the Nakra had admitted that they had guised themselves as Sonali.
Flynn remembered receiving the Planetary Legate from the Sonali side on his flagship. They had arranged a ceasefire right there.
Six months later, a formal declaration of cessation of hostilities ushered the way for peace. Two months later, he was promoted and stationed on New Washington.
To think, all of this could have been avoided.
If anyone was truly to blame, it was the Nakra, not Jeryl. But his guilt and frustration galvanized his determination to create this Galactic Council, where representatives from each species would be invited to air any grievances, raise issues, and try to solve their problems through words, not conflict. It was a worthy goal, an attempt to make something new in galactic history, as far as they could determine. It was the first step toward a unified galaxy, and Flynn was proud that humans were spearheading it.
Jeryl, in fact, had spent most of the last year on Sonali Prime, working directly with humankind’s old enemies, who were proving to be good friends after all. But he had transferred here now because of his work to make the council a reality.
Jeryl grinned now, and Flynn saw some of the tension come out of him. It made the old admiral want to put an arm around him, but he wouldn’t do that, of course. It would make both of them rather uncomfortable.
I have to show my affection in subtler ways, Flynn decided.
“I’m glad you’ll be around more often,” he said then. “I’ve found a couple of good fishing spots that I’d like to show you.”
“I’d love to go. I could use a break from all the people.”
“Eh?”
“It’s just that i
t’s a little odd for me to see so many humans around, after spending so much of my time on Sonali Prime.”
He grunted. “I see more aliens than humans, these days.”
“Times have changed!” He drained his glass. “Got to go, sir; I have yet another meeting. It’s been good to see you.”
They shook hands once more.
“Come by any time,” Flynn told him.
“Count on it.” He flashed that grin again, and then he was gone.
Two years ago, it would’ve been difficult for Flynn to imagine that one day, he’d be looking at his window, feeling a sense of peace.
But now I’m here, looking at this marvellous view, he thought. I can see the future.
It looks bright.
The Omarian Gambit
A Pax Aeterna Novel
Call of Command Book 2
By Trevor Wyatt
Copyright 2017 by Pax Aeterna Press
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
Want Trevor Wyatt in your inbox? Get freebies, new release updates, bonus chapters, and more!
Sign up for my newsletter!
Jeryl
I’m weary of New Washington. Simmering with discontent, I stalk along the elevated walkway over the main promenade, dodging aliens and hearing translations of their babble, courtesy of my Trask implant. I make the “delete feed” gesture so many times that I probably look like I’m trying to swat gnats. It’s almost enough to make me miss my days on Sonali Prime, when I had to use the translator unit all the time. Now I’d love to have the damn physically unobtrusive but mentally crazy-making in-ear implant removed, but there are occasions when I need it. Walking in public, however, is not one of them; but the device can’t be turned off; you can only cancel a conversation. Design flaw.
