“Weird corporate structure. But glassware, you say? You’re telling me those big, heavy crates the Lizards pushed were just glassware?”
“Yes. High-precision Bose-Einstein Condensate vessels, high-strength fusion containment ceramics, photovoltaic structural panels and road pavers —”
“OK, I get the picture.” Drex interrupted. That still didn’t explain the bulk and number of the crates he saw. Some of the containers looked Reptilian in design. That suggested more than a single-source shipper.
“Commerce security over there is very, very lax. Operations security on the station is another matter, but we don’t care about that, do we, Captain?”
Drex froze on the catwalk stairs. “Reggie, what did you do?”
“Relax, boss. I didn’t leave any traces. Let’s just say that the game they tried to play on us, I played better. In a month’s time, you will receive a 20% bonus commission for helping the Lizards deliver their cargo. The paperwork will trigger as soon as we are underway. We will be long gone and out of Lizard crosshairs.”
Drex smiled and continued his climb to the tractor decks. “Reggie, I grew up with you, but you never cease to surprise me.”
“That’s nice, junior. Scamper off now and go play Captain.” Reggie said, and closed the channel.
Jackass AI, Drex thought as he climbed. Reggie came through again, though. As scary as an unregulated AI was, Reggie got the job done. The AI may have been the machine equivalent of an antisocial personality, but he turned out to be far more reliable than Drexler’s family. Where were his brothers, his father, and his sister? Gone. They bailed. Reggie was still here doing the job.
Drexler continued on his way to visit the ship’s doctor. He climbed the ten stories of scaffold stairs to reach the final ladder that led to the Tractor Section. The hatch mechanism was broken. It was awkward work to push the portal open while standing on a ladder. As soon as Drexler’s head broke the deck horizon, he saw the four-toed feet of his first officer.
“Give me a hand, Mumlo,” Drexler said. The large simian unfolded one thick, furry, three-jointed arm and wrapped his four long fingers around Drexler’s forearm. He pulled his captain up from the hatch without bending down.
“Should we expect pay on time, boss?” the First Officer asked. The untranslated Tradespeak rumbled from his chest with gravelly, deep bass tones.
“Of course, Mumlo. The Fleetfoot Freight Company values your service.”
Mumlo’s eyes the size and shape of large mangoes, narrowed beneath the bristly black fur of his high, sloped forehead. His thin beige lips peeled back from large, rounded teeth until they exposed the log incisors that extended past the corners of his mouth. Mumlo was not amused.
“I have 16 children to feed and three wives to support,” Mumlo growled. “I can’t go a month with no pay.”
Drexler reached up a full foot to place his hands the First Officer’s broad shoulders and said, “I know Mumlo. Just hang in there with me for a little while longer. You served with the Old Man for more than two decades before he took off. You’ve been with the Company nearly as long Samuel. I have it all worked out. After this run —”
“Always the next run with you. It was that way with your father too, but he managed to pay the crew on time.” Mumlo interrupted as he brushed past Drexler. His loping gait was punctuated by angry hand falls as he proceeded on all his limbs. He only walked on all-fours when he was angry or determined. Drexler closed the hatch and carefully folded its handle back into the deck.
The Captain shook his head and signed deep in his throat with a clenched jaw. More trouble loomed. If the First Officer was openly hostile to management, he could only imagine what the rest of the crew thought. When he reached the med bays, Drexler was surprised to find two of his stevedores with their wings spread out between two beds built for Humanoids.
“There’s some damage to the connective tissue here at the joint,” Dr. Samuel Abiola said, hidden behind the spread wings. He was talking slowly so the bug’s translators could catch every word. Drex made out the Doctor’s shadowy form moving around behind the cloudy, translucent wing membranes. “Just sit down, and I’ll be with you shortly,” Samuel called out. He thought Drex was another patient.
“What’s wrong with these guys?” Drex asked. Doctor Samuel Abiola stood up, recognizing the voice of his captain.
“You almost pulled their wings off, is what’s up,” the Doctor said sharply. The creases in the deep brown skin of his forehead formed and accusing “V” shape.
“Better that then smashed bugs,” Drex replied. More importantly to the captain, reports to the Trade Commission for sentient crew members killed on the job would mean an extra week of delay.
“Insectoids,” the doctor corrected. He spoke the word carefully with the respect he deemed necessary for reference to sentient beings. “They are called ‘Insectoids.’”
“I’m taking them off duty for a week. The injuries are very painful for them. That connective tissue is strong, but very troublesome when injured,” Samuel said, and sat back down behind the wings again. Drex shrugged and sat on a stool by Samuel’s desk. Two bugs down was not a big loss. Drexler counted 148 more where those came from.
When he finished, Samuel dismissed the stevedores, who walked out humanoid style on their hind legs. Each creature touched the Doctor’s forearm with at least one forelimb as a gesture of gratitude. To return the affection, the Doctor rubbed his hand vigorously across their shells as they left. The insects enjoyed the warmth imparted by humanoid touch.
“Rest up, boys,” Dr. Abiola said. “Enjoy your leave.”
Drex noticed his drones were walking on their rear limbs a lot lately. It gave him the creeps. He only kept the bugs around because they worked harder than Humanoids and the price was right. Many of the non-affiliated space stations and colonies didn’t even allow bugs to enter their facilities.
Drexler got up and closed the pocket door, asked, “How would you like to make some extra money on the side?”
Samuel said nothing because Drex already knew the answer was “yes.” The doctor crossed the room and loosened a ventilation panel. He reached into the vent and removed an antique wooden box. He took out two cigars and handed one to Drexler, who ran it under his nose, inhaling deeply.
On the exhale, Drex asked, “I wonder if these Lizards like tobacco?”
Samuel smiled. The ex-Marine Medic with three medical degrees was very familiar with Reptilians. He’d killed several thousand of them in various low-intensity conflicts on the unincorporated worlds bordering Pan-African space. Ship’s Doctor was Samuel’s second and fondest career. He tried not to think about his war days, but the chance to stick it to the Reptilians always presented a great temptation. He displayed a bit less reverence for Reptilians as a species than he did for other forms of life. That was the sentiment upon which Drexler intended to capitalize.
“Easy sell,” Samuel said. He was also familiar with how quickly Reptilians became addicted to tobacco. That was one of the many reasons why tobacco was contraband on the Trade Union worlds. It was cultivated on the City Ships of the Federated Americas that drifted so often just a few light years from the Trade Lanes. Drexler lit Samuel’s stogie, then his own. They puffed in silence for a while, enjoying the buzz of fine tobacco.
“Drexler,” Samuel began, “What’s on your mind.” The doctor was an old hire who had worked with Drexler’s father for 25 years before Drexler took over. He’d known the Captain since he was a kid. The Doctor was always closer with Drexler’s siblings but knew the young Captain very well.
“I want to leverage this black market tobacco to get some dirt on the Lizards.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Not sure. I just want to let you know that’s what my game is.”
The Doctor looked genuinely surprised, said, “Usually when your lips are moving, they’re casting off bullshit. It worries me that you’re honest with me.”
Drex did a spit take
with a lungful of smoke. He coughed out his laughter, replied, “Yeah, well, let’s just say my bullshit has reached the point of diminishing returns with you. Only took 25 years.”
The old Marine smiled, replied, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. You make me feel old when you say things like that, though.”
“You’re a spring chicken; a sprightly 65. You above all others should know the functional Human lifespan is well over a hundred fifty years now; modern medicine being what it is and all.”
“OK, OK,” Samuel said, “The brown-nosing is beneath you, and I certainly don’t need the lecture.”
“These Lizards don’t look right to me. Reggie says they’re carrying laboratory glassware and building glass. That doesn’t sound right for an agricultural colony.”
Samuel shrugged his shoulders, puffed on his cigar. “Solar pavers and industrial glass? Sounds normal to me. But sure. I could stand to stretch my legs a bit.”
“And also,” Drexler said, “If this colony has any business with the Lizards, I want to steal it or sink it.”
The Doctor probably figured this out earlier, but Drex wanted him along because he was built like a blast proof bulkhead. He also still had his Pan-African Federation, Marine-Issued implants. His physical strength and combat experience would be up to the task if the Lizards got nasty. Drex had been in enough spaceport brawls with Lizards to know just how nasty they could be.
On his way back to the flight deck, Drexler got an unusual message from the Broodqueen. She wanted permission to take shore leave on the space station. Drexler approved the request in a return message with a simple “OK.”
4
The Queen Guardian left her old friend to worry in his Cathedral. She was sad to go, and sadder still that his blessing of her mission seemed only tepid. She thought the old Priest would be elated at her discovery that would save their Genosphere. But she couldn’t think about that now. As she flew across the jungle floor, she made plans to call a plenary session of the Planetary Council and announce her mission.
The rulers of the other Insectoid Species would all have to agree. She would have to call in all the political favors earned over the years, beginning with the other Hive Queens. Her long life of sacrificing her children to service would pay dividends. She would make sure of that. The Queen Guardian asked the Arborist Priest to convince the Great Worm Lords. That meant she could count on their support. A simple promise from the Great Scholar was equivalent to fact.
That left 2000 other species and their subclasses to convince. The task was daunting, but with any luck, in a few days’ time, she would receive permission to leave the planet and travel to Trade Union territory. She found it ironic that it was commerce that would save her planet when commerce was the very thing her people resisted for the past 200 years; a timespan more than half her life.
The rapid expansion of the Humans through explored space changed the balance of sentient life radically since she was a pupa. The known population centers of the Galaxy were already thrown into chaos by the Silicoid Wars. The fact that sentient life survived at all was due to the leadership of the Gray Humanoids who marshaled the combined forces of the mysterious humanoid Protector Race and the Humans who left their world behind to join the conflict. Any other sentient Race capable of fighting acceded to the struggle, and the Silicoids were defeated.
But the cost was high. Worlds that believed they were alone among the stars faced the sudden revelation of hundreds of new intelligent, space faring races. New worlds were claimed, and old worlds fell. Most sentient beings had to spread out further from their original planets to survive the ravages of violent conflict.
Commerce enabled this expansion. To make this possible, the nomadic Gray Humanoids and the Protector Race established the Trade Union. Faced with the prospect of more destruction, the Sentient Races agreed to a loose government based on ritualized trade. A new balance formed based on a complex web of interdependence.
The only biosphere that did not reach out past its home planet were the Insectoids. And it seemed they would pay for that choice with their existence. Until now. The Queen Guardian had found the solution. She was happy for the first time a century. The eggs she laid at her age coming ceremony would finally find their father somewhere out there among the stars. Her new brood would return and provide the nourishment of diversity for the entire Insectoid Genosphere. She tried not to imagine what the lost colony would be like. She wanted it to be her greatest surprise.
***
Alpha Commander Sslolg paced the bridge deck of his new Warship and worried. He tried to hide that worry from the crew, but they already tasted weakness in the air. The best he could do to maintain his Alpha Status was pace aggressively and keep the deck crew cowering. He’d already bitten off the hand of his first officer to provide an example. When an Alpha Reptile’s command was questioned, opponents must pay with flesh. With the scent of blood still heavy in the air and thick the Alpha’s tongue, the crew was starting to get the message. Sslolg found his First Officer’s flesh tasty. He might look for an opportunity soon to make the ultimate example of him. As he paced, he imagined what an excellent meal the first officer would make.
But none of his worry or bloodlettings changed the facts that had caused him such concern. The Simian spies on the Insectoid Homeworld provided very worrisome intelligence that the Queen Guardian was mobilizing. He had faced her Hive in a series of border skirmishes a century ago and had no desire to face her stingers again. He was growing too old for such battle. Sslolg witnessed far too many ground soldiers die horrific deaths from the most powerful neurotoxin in the known Galaxy.
The Insectoids did not seek war, but they waged it well. It was also hard for the proud Reptilians to accept that the Insectoid effort was a major deciding factor in the Silicoid Wars. But his people prided themselves on being realists. When they found something true, they did not deny it. They bided their time and searched for new ways to conquer.
While the Guardian’s Hive was not at full war-waging strength, her army of several hundred thousand troops loose on the Trade Lanes would not bode well for the secret development of his war fleet. The humanoids were already asking too many questions, and the Insectoids were smart. As a tactician, Sslolg had to concede that the Insectoid race was far more intelligent than his own. But as a successful dominant Alpha, he also knew that cunning and overwhelming aggression can overcome intelligence. Those were the traits in which his Species excelled above most other Sentient races. These were the features that formed the basis of Sslolg’s confidence in victory.
It took the Silicoid Wars to teach his people that they could dominate more than the handful of worlds they’d colonized across 20 light years. Their alliance with the Warrior Protectors, the Grays, and the Humans showed them that their warfighting skills might serve to expand their range much further. Agreeing to the Trade Union for the past 600 years allowed them to grow even stronger and hone their cunning further.
So, in true Reptilian predatory fashion, they bit their prey occasionally and played out the long game until their victim staggered and showed signs of sickness. The plump, lumbering, bureaucratic beast of the Trade Union seemed strong, but in reality, it was just another sick animal waiting to fall to the Reptilian Empire. The best part of that, Sslolg thought, was that the beast was completely unaware.
But now the grand plan faced multiple challenges. Sslolg now understood that it was his race that now suffered from complacency. The war plan was three generations old. It had been in Sslolg’s War Clan for three generations. It was only the dominance of his Clan that kept the plan alive. The scheme met opposition from the more moderate Governing and Science Clans. At the same time, the Royal House was counting on Sslolg to finish building this fleet without the Trade Union noticing. That was a difficult task with commerce so heavily regulated by the annoying little Gray humanoids buzzing about. In spite of the invasive bureaucracy, the Reptilians still maintained a secret fleet that was just months away fr
om pouncing on unsuspecting and weak prey.
***
Abhay Nautiyal stepped through the door of his palace apartments and let his shoulders sag beneath his official sherwani. Abandoned was the pretense of his ramrod-straight military posture in the relative safety of his home. He was a young man in his early forties, but just then he felt timeworn under the strain of his responsibility. The elaborately embroidered long coat felt especially heavy today.
Abhay had just left a secret joint meeting of the Senate Security Council and its counterpart in the House of Provinces. The situation was exceedingly worrisome. It appeared that the Reptilian war armada was nearly complete. While his government knew the Lizards were building a war fleet, they still had no idea where it was. It had cost many noble Human lives to gain what little information they could over the past 90 years. Most of those lost lives were Indian. He thought of the warriors who struggled in complete secrecy in defense of the Trade Union. The official record would never honor their sacrifice.
His official intelligence resources were not the only reliable sources of this disheartening information. Abhay’s contacts among the nomadic Federated Americas also confirmed the strange goings-on of the Reptilians in unincorporated space. The constant border skirmishes of the past 200 years were becoming less intense, yet more random. Any time a regular pattern shifted, one must be wary. His mentor, Field Marshall Molinar taught him that lesson very well. He wished the old man were here now.
Abhay kicked off his dress boots, shucked off his official coat and collapsed into the soft pillows at the center of the living room floor. He looked up at the glass panels of the domed room. He lost his troubles in the lotus design of the varicolored glass. The light of Kerala 2 was still high in its 30th hour. In six more hours, the sun would tumble down behind the eastern dunes and the 20-hour night would cover the Southern Hemisphere. The planet cycles of his homeworld were long, and the Human biorhythms never quite adapted perfectly to the 56-hour day. He closed his eyes and controlled his breath.
Fleetfoot Interstellar: Fleetfoot Interstellar Series, Book 1 Page 3
