The Omarian Gambit: A Pax Aeterna Novel

by Trevor Wyatt

  Peace is a good thing. As I settle into the cab’s cushioned seat, I allow myself to reflect a bit on this. Perhaps it’s just the added perspective I have while I’m aloft here above the most important city in human history. Peace allows women to argue about cheese. Peace between the species we’ve contacted will lead to increased opportunities in education, technology, and even social evolution. Best of all, to my way of thinking, it’s a two-way street. We may not have a lot in common with the Drupadi when it comes to living space and preferred food, but we both value peace. I’ve come to understand that intelligent beings are more or less the same everywhere: people just want to be left alone to go about their lives. When you think about it, that’s not a lot to ask.

  Sure, there are disenfranchised minorities on almost every planet. The great fallacy of human society has been an inability to visualize aliens as having civilizations as complex as ours. Earth—and human culture—isn’t a monolithic, homogenous mass like an ant colony. There are still a few hunter-gatherer cultures left on Earth as well as some nomadic people who resist the pressure to settle in cities. They have no use for the Galactic Council.

  It’s the same on other worlds. There are downtrodden castes, unevolved cultures, or uncivilized backwater regions on every planet we have contacted. Sure, we’d like to bring them all into the current century; but the truth is, they don’t want to join the party, for whatever reason. And it isn’t our business to force them.

  Like I said, it took us a long time to get to this point, and the realization has proven to be a fragile thing. There are still plenty of people who believe that they “know better” than others, and that their way of life is the only acceptable way.

  The Terran Union conducted an informal census a few years ago, and the numbers show that there are roughly 2 million nonhuman Union members on a variety of worlds, with most of them concentrated here on New Washington and on planet Earth. Many of these individuals are government employees, of course, and they represent billions of their citizens. Keeping them all happy— or trying to keep them all happy, I should say—has been a full-time job.

  My job.

  Some days are better than others. This day, I see as the cab’s spiraling in for a landing on the roof of my building, isn’t over yet. I crane my neck to get a better look. There are hundreds of protestors down there, waving signs and shaking their fists at the blank glass façade.

  I groan. I know who these people are. They are Terran Nationalists, protesting here outside the official residence of the human diplomatic corps.

  Protesting to me—among others.

  I settle back into the seat, resisting an impulse to tell the cab to take me back to Flynn’s office. I grip the hand rests. I won’t let these fools ruin my day. With that in mind, as well as an unbidden image of a plate of sliced cheddar and a cold bottle of white wine, I compose myself as best I can. I’m going to have to talk to them, try to get them to disperse.

  The cab settles into the landing cradle, which accepts its weight without as much as a creak of protest. The Terran Nationalists are a relatively new group that’s gained strength over the past three years in response to the influx of aliens to human worlds. They insist that aliens are taking human jobs and that they’re sucking the economy dry of valuable resources while contributing nothing in terms of taxes. They say the alien cultures are destroying Terran values.

  Whereas, like I said, most people just want to live their lives and adhere to what used to be called the Golden Rule, which translates to, “If you don’t stick your nose in my affairs, I will not stick my nose in your affairs.” You’d think that would be simple enough for anyone to understand, but there are those—and I’ve encountered many of them in my time—who really do believe that they know what you “ought to do.” And they’re sincere in that belief.

  The Terran Nationalists fall into that category. Their outrage over the emigration of aliens towers above New Washington’s loftiest spires. This is the first time they’ve become so bold as to set up a protest outside my home (and not just mine, of course, but the home of many members of my staff and others in the diplomatic corps). But I’ve learned how to not let my anger or irritation show in tight situations, so when I climb out of the cab, I have an easy smile on my face. Mr. Friend-of-the-Media, that’s me. Because I can see the cameras pointed at me from within that crowd.

  The Nationalists may be obnoxious, but they aren’t fools. If I say anything stupid or angry, it’ll flash on news screens on a dozen worlds.

  This is not the homecoming I was hoping for.

  Chapter 3

  Ashley

  The Terran Union diplomatic headquarters and residences are a spectacular sight to behold. Designed by a consortium of artists, architects and engineers, this artistic beauty and engineering marvel stretches exactly two hundred and seventy four floors into the air.

  The first floor starts at about ten yards above ground level. The building is surrounded by polished stone steps connecting the ground level to four main entrances on all fours faces of the building. Covering a base of about two blocks, this structure is the diplomatic powerhouse of the Terran Union. It houses more than a thousand staffs and caters to tens of thousands of delegates.

  There are housing quarters for special delegates and series of massive conference rooms for the several meetings that take place within the building. There is a landing pad with cradle at the top of the building where air cars and away vehicles from the orbiting space station or orbiting ships can land to drop delegates or senators from other worlds.

  The building also has a stadium sized general assembly area, which is located on a subterranean level. This hall is usually used for general assemblies between humans, Sonali and all other species. Plated with a mixture of colored glass, aluminum and stainless steel, the body of the building looks like a smooth, slick star ship. I almost feel like I can pilot the thing out to space.

  I have heard rumors that the building does have an emergency evacuation protocol, especially in the case of an attack or emergency that threatens its destruction. It can be easily turned into a space vessel with its thrusters and launched into space, where it will merge with the orbiting space station that is FTL capable and escape to a military zone.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” says a voice behind me, interrupting my train of thoughts.

  I turn to see a security personnel looking at me with a warm smile. I smile back.

  “Are you lost?”

  “No,” I reply. “I’m just waiting for my husband. He’s supposed to meet me right here. Thanks for asking.”

  The security man nods, turns, and walks away from me.

  Returning to my fascination with this building, I crane my neck to get a good view of the top of the building. I have to squint and shade my eye with my hand because of the high angle of the blazing twin suns and spikes of reflected light that strikes at my eyes.

  Jeryl tells me that sometimes the top of the building is hidden within the clouds, other times it’s not. This is one of the other times. I see that at the very top, the building curves inward, reducing the area to about a fourth of its base area.

  Then I see a lightning rod (at least I think it is) that stretches higher and higher on. Because of the thickness of the lightning rod, I can’t tell if it’s ten yards tall or if it’s hundred yards tall.

  I begin to think seriously about my theory that the building could be a spaceship. There is a control center at two hundred and seventy fourth level. This control center takes up the whole floor and it’s where the entire building is controlled.

  It’s where the staff of over one thousand members are coordinated and directed.

  Though owned by the government, it’s not a military building hence the staff are not military. However, the staff use a military hierarchical system, which ensures productivity and discipline.

  I even heard that the senior managers in the building are former Terran Armada officers. Some left the Armada just after the Earth-
Sonali war to join the team here in the headquarters.

  I don’t blame them, neither do I hate them for leaving the Armada. But if they had left during the war, I may have hated them.

  The pay here is good. Very good.

  A junior staffer here could be earning more than twice what a First Officer in a Battle Cruiser may be earning. And senior staffers here earn way more than some top Admirals. I know that they earn more than my husband, Vice Admiral Jeryl Montgomery.

  But then being in the Armada is more than getting paid. It has become my life. It is my passion—to explore the vast reaches of space and defend the Terran Union with all the firepower of the Terran Armada. I’d very quickly give up life than give up the opportunity to be the captain of The Seeker, which I now command.

  I’d readily give up on life than give up on my dream of commanding the entire Armada fleet alongside my husband one day.

  In fact, I’ll freely pay to be allowed to captain an Armada vessel as massive and extremely powerful as The Seeker. If the Armada thinks it’s wise to pay me in spite of my desire and proclivity, I don’t mind.

  I am standing at the base of the flight of steps that lead up to the building. There is a moderate pedestrian traffic moving up and down the steps.

  They are mostly humans. But every so often you see an alien face as well.

  So much has changed so fast in New Washington. Some are happy, some aren’t. Many are still trying to catch their breath.

  The grounds of the building are very large. Air cars whiz by, dropping and picking up people. Each air car that stops and descends to the ground in my proximity draws my attention. When I see it’s not my husband, I go back to marveling the building.

  Building security is tight around, both inside and outside the building—men and women wielding laser guns set to stun. These people undergo the same training as the Armada security corps that has now become a common stay on all Armada vessel.

  I once tried to get them off The Seeker, when my husband handed over command to me by the approval of the Armada board. Then I found out that it was more than a matter of policy. It was the law, and to issue such an order that would invalidate the work of the security personnel would be unlawful.

  I begin to feel a slow buildup of anger and resentment. The one arm of the Terran Armada I don’t like so much is the Armada Intelligence.

  “Those pompous overbred sons of bitches,” I mutter with acrimony before I catch myself and stop.

  I force a smile as I exhale. I look around and take in a deep breath. The air is warm and filled with the wonderful smell of New Washington summer. The outer edges of the grounds are surrounded with gardens that are well tended and blooming.

  “Here me all!” booms a loud voice.

  I turn my head, a little alarmed, to see who is speaking. I notice an average height (the kind that borders on tall man) and a small gathering crowd. The man begins to address the people.

  They are far enough to notice me in particular as I suspect from the man’s tone and words that his protest is against the Alien Integration Program and against the government and military that sponsor and support this program. Yet, I’m close enough to hear him speak and to realize that he is Lucien Parker.

  Lucien Parker is a household name in almost every household on Terran World in 2205. His outspokenness against all aliens and our bid to integrate them and integrate with them has gone unnoticed by the government. Yet, he is so popular with the masses.

  Everyone within the Armada thinks he is taking advantage of the war that led to the loss of countless lives to rise to popularity. I think so too, and I think it’s the lowest of the low.

  The worst part?

  Lucien used to be part of the Armada. He joined as an enlisted soldier in 2197. He left in 2202, once peace was declared.

  “For five bloody years we fought these scumbags!” Lucien yells, the ever growing crowds roaring in response. “And now these blue skinned bastards are coming to our worlds, living in our worlds, and taking our goddamn jobs and money!”

  The crowd yells its support, some cursing the government that facilitates this “evil”, while others insulting the Sonali, who are the “evil”.

  “They are yet to pledge allegiance to the Terran Union, yet they keep taking money out of our economy! They are waging the same war, only using peace as their mechanisms!”

  The crowd is starting to work into a frenzy. I take several steps away as the crowd grows by the second.

  I see that a bunch of security personnel are holding a very loose circle around the crowd. Their stance is relaxed and unaggressive. However, I know that they can go from there to full on battle mode in the fraction of a second.

  “Mothers, consider your children who have died in the war,” Lucien continues, his voice inflections conveying the gravity of the losses. I even begin to feel the pain and a little anger at the Alien Integration Program before I catch myself. You are playing right into his perfectly crafted motives, I tell myself.

  “These same mothers now have to work alongside the same people who killed their sons!” Lucien says at the point of tears.

  Lucien’s eyes are even glistening in the sun. I marvel at his professional display of theatric skills. I know he doesn’t really care for those mothers. He is an anarchist. And I’m just waiting for the injunction that will declare him an enemy of the state and a terrorist to the Union.

  I will be the one to hunt him down and put him in a cell for desecrating the knowledge and efforts of the millions that died during the five-year-long war. However, Lucien has been incredibly smart. He is yet to break any laws, though he skirts them with the confidence of an experienced dancer.

  And, the Union is supposedly dedicated to free speech. I’d be just as bad as him if I took it away.

  Lucien points to a woman who has been standing beside him this whole time. That’s also when I start to actually notice her. She’s a woman in her mid-fifties. She’s been sobbing a while because her face is moist with tears.

  “This is Martha,” he says. “Her son was killed when the TUS Cortez engaged with the Sonali at Edoris Station and was destroyed. Now this same woman finds herself working for a Sonali manager who has recently been hired by the Pan Solaris Corporation. Is that fair?”

  “No!” the crowd booms in unison.

  I even flinch at their unified voices. I notice some of the guards are becoming nervous.

  “Is it just?”

  “No!” Another boom.

  This time, I take a few more steps backward. I see that the crowd has gotten aggressive and angry. The guards have switched to full on battle mode. I am not sure what triggered them. But I feel the tension rising to nuclear high.

  There is about to be a showdown. Any misstep, any misfire, anything—and this whole protest will end in a disaster. I am almost compelled to radio my ship that’s currently orbiting the planet to send my security detail, which has been expanded to ten, thanks to my crazy paranoid husband.

  Not so crazy paranoid now, I guess.

  Chapter 4

  Jeryl

  “Are you sure you want to head out there, sir?” asks one of the security personnel, when I point to my wife who’s standing several yards away from the protesters.

  One look at the scenario and I know it’s not going to end well. The guards are too close to the protesters. Their guns are aimed at them. That’s never a good thing to do.

  Whoever gave that order needs to be retrained.

  You don’t point guns at peaceful protesters, no matter how aggressive they become. You don’t cast the first stone.

  Because protests are protected by the law, law enforcers has to adopt a reactionary approach. They can only use full force once the protesters move from being aggressive to being destructive. Even then, applying force still has a limit.

  I know Lucien Parker all too well. I read his files several month ago. Now that I’m a Vice Admiral and the Terran Union point person in the talks with the Sonali and oth
er species in regards to the Galactic Council, I have full access to the resources and tool of Armada Intelligence.

  Lucien Parker is an ingenious tactician. He is versed in all the laws and statues of the government and the military. He was untapped potential as an enlisted man. His record shows that even despite his rank, he was awarded multiple decorations for bravery in combat.

  Armada Intelligence tried reaching out to him after the war. He resigned his commission by then, but he had already begun forming the Terran Nationalists.

  One of the reports I read said he was possessed with the spirit of Adolf Hitler, the twentieth century mastermind behind World War II and the Holocaust.

  This is why I know he couldn’t care less about our Alien Integration Program. He has an ulterior motive, and if he has to use hapless mothers and fathers and children to get it, he will more than gladly do it.

  “Yes,” I say to the guard. “I won’t let these protestors cow me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier says and lets me through in between the crowd and my wife.

  I am about to step into the melee when the soldier begins to speak again. “Sir, don’t you think its best that I call HQ security and bring her over to us? You’re the very face of what these guys are protesting against. If they see you unarmed and unguarded, they could hurt you.”

  I smile at the soldier. Agent Rusher if I remember correctly. “Rusher, I’ve been fighting demons since even before the start of the war. I won’t be easily taken down by a con artist and his goon crew.”

  I step out into the grounds of the diplomatic headquarters with my hand holding my briefcase tight. I march straight for my wife, whose grim expression brightens up as she spots me.

  Ashley’s beauty still stuns me even after eight years of marriage. I hug and kiss her, my back still to the crowd. We look into each other’s eyes for a moment, and the background yells and Lucien’s maleficent words fall into a background din that I’m no longer paying attention to.