Dinner With Family

by Hiroyuki Morioka

  The rust-red planet lacked much in the way of moisture content. In fact, the only pools of water that could be seen from orbit consisted of a number of giant ravines formed by convection between the planet’s nucleus and crust, though the rather sharp-eyed could also make out the lakes and marshes dotting the surface.

  That being said, telling residents of Delktu that their planet had no seas or oceans was inadvisable. They called their ravines filled with freshwater “seas,” with a sense of endearment and attachment that outsiders had trouble comprehending.

  Where one of those “seas” — the Sea of Fai — intersected the equator, lay the largest city and capital, Mei, and that was where the orbital tower stood in geosynchronous orbit. Delktu had a short rotation time (causing dust storms that were notable even on the galactic scale to be visible from orbit as well), so the geosynchronous orbit was relatively close to the ground. The spaceport, situated at the tower’s center, floated a mere 20.6 saidagh off the surface.

  Meanwhile, 7.1 saidagh above geosynchronous orbit flew the Vorlash Count’s Manor. The orbital tower extended higher up than the spaceport at its core. The laws of physics discovered eons past demanded a balance be struck, and so there was a long stem on the opposite side of the planet’s surface as well, with a small asteroid fastened to serve as a weight. As such, the Manor had to change course from time to time to avoid getting split into two by the carbon crystal fiber.

  Vorlash had been a comparatively recent addition to the Empire’s list of territory-nations, and less than a century had passed since its settlers first stepped foot onto its sole inhabitable planet. For such young landworlds, it came as no surprise that immigrants from many different worlds would get mixed up in a big welter, and yet it was common for somewhat colorless societies to coalesce. Delktu was an exception to that rule, because the first wave of settlers all hailed from a certain landworld, rich with history, named Üamcamec of the Lœbehynh Elcacr (Marquessate of Elcach). Settlers from other territory-nations were accepted into the fold from there, but the majority of landworld citizens in Vorlash had distant relatives in Elcash, and so the planetwide society was tethered by a Wahmcahm sense of ethics. To give one example of such cultural cohesion, to the citizens of Vorlash, moving was a big to-do that might or might not happen in one’s lifetime, so they tended to regard people who swapped houses two or three times a year as total aliens with bizarre customs.

  Furthermore, the House of Vorlash was related to the Lœbeghéc Elcacr (House of Elcash), and both were connected to the Emyoor Clan, which was one of the Founding Families.

  The Emyoor Clan’s crests had a common motif in the symbol of the asüith (dragonfly). Naturally, the crest of the House of Vorlash was adorned with a dragonfly as well. The Asüith lo Daitemh (Dragonfly and Lightning) were the crest of the Count’s House and of the Countdom itself, and there they were above the gate that was the main entrance of the Count’s Mansion. The Baucbiruch was just a hundred dagh away, more than close enough to make out that crest with the naked eye.

  “That took quite some skill,” said Lafier, impressed.

  “Yeah,” nodded Jint.

  Not one of the servant vassals of the House of Hyde were currently on the Baucbiruch, so the ship wasn’t being run by vassals, but rather by employees of the Empire’s Merchant Ship Company.

  Wish I could just hire them, thought Jint. But that was not to be. The saucec Rüé Casobérlacr (Imperial Merchant Ship Company crewmembers) enjoyed higher status than the vassals of the House of Hyde could. Besides, they were all reserve lodaïrh Laburer (Star Forces starpilots) anyway. If the war got more dire, they would get conscripted.

  A bridge extended from below the gate, and attached itself to the Baucbiruch. When prodded to say something, Jint activated the intra-ship comms.

  “This is Count Hyde speaking,” he stated, albeit not without feeling awkward about it. “I’m sure you’re already aware why, but I’ll be parting ways with you all for a time. Until we meet again, I’m leaving command of the ship to Investigator Yestesh.” Jint wondered how to close off, before settling on: “The situation is fluid, but I ask you bear with me.”

  He could feel Lafier’s critical gaze. “Did I mess up somehow?” he asked fretfully.

  “No, it’s fine,” she said coldly. “I think everyone is too busy to have been listening anyway.”

  Chapter 3: Flaigec Laiblacharr (Banquet of Departure)

  The Flicaubh had entered final deceleration, but no fine tuning was needed. The course forward was beautiful, elegant, and undistorted by fiddly alterations as the raid ship, now come of age, approached its temporary dwelling.

  The Empire had set up factories to mass-produce ship docks in its capital, sending out their manufactured wares to bases of operations scattered all over space. But not all were dispatched; about ten percent remained in the Abliar Countdom, where the capital was located. Special Construction Site 7022 had bound fourteen of the remaining docks together and added on affiliated facilities. But fourteen was just the current number. There was room for expansion.

  The Flicaubh flew into Special Site Dock 5. Coincidentally, Special Site 7022 was near Behtoor Construction Site. The Flicaubh and its sisters were all carefully prototyped one at a time in a dock not very different from Dock 5, with mass-production slated for Behtoor. Of course, “near” being relative, they were still several saidagh away, but even so, some of Behtoor’s production pipelines were visible from 7022, shining in the light of Abliar’s sun. If the Caubh-class was deemed serviceable, then a number of those production tubes would be used for the construction of raid ships. The siblings of the Flicaubh would march down the tubes’ interiors as they were given shape, to be shot into the void between the stars.

  While Sobash had not been informed of the construction plans, he was sure that preparations for mass-production had already commenced. It had yet to be tested in battle, but he could tell Caubh-class raid ships were keepers. At this very moment, Sobash could sense, with his frocragh spatiosensory perception, that five of the production pipes were straightening out from their coiled states. And in the vicinity, some hundreds of structures were floating, waiting to be connected to the pipes. If that wasn’t a sign mass-production was in the works, nothing was.

  The floating structures in question included factories that mass-produced ship components, as well as residential facilities for employees. Once the production pipes were fully straightened, and the mini-factories and employee residences established in the appropriate positions, mass production would begin in earnest. Granted, there was no evidence they would be creating the Flicaubh’s brethren, but Sobash didn’t know what else it could be.

  After the Flicaubh and the other ships were examined, minor modifications would be made to the positioning of the manufacturing equipment and production process at Warship Management Headquarters’ inner vault. Then Caubh-class raid ships would be born in rapid succession.

  During his years as a trader, Sobash had only boarded inexpensive used supply ships, but he was deeply humbled by the fact that he’d lent a hand to the birth of a new class of vessel. After finishing the administrative procedures concerning the inspection and maintenance, Sobash transferred the crew to a smallcraft. They were three hours away (at a velocity of two daimon G-levels) from The Stylet. Ecryua was piloting on his orders.

  “This is my first time at The Stylet,” murmured Ecryua, sitting in the Steerer’s Seat.

  I suppose she’s expressing excitement, in her own way, mused Sobash contentedly, sitting in the Assistant Steerer’s Seat.

  Sensing his inquisitive eyes on her, she cast him a glance and cocked her head.

  “Act as you please,” said Sobash, his inner smile breaking out. “You’re the Skipper, after all.”

  Ecryua nodded expressionlessly, and took that as her cue. “This is your Skipper speaking,” she broadcast. “All hands, fasten your seatbelts and prepare for high acceleration.”

  Wait just one minute! Sobash nearl
y shouted.

  All of a smallcraft’s passenger seats were perpendicular to the floor. When the vessel landed in a place with gravity control, the passengers could but remain standing. But once the ship started accelerating, the perceived direction of gravity would shift at once, making those upright seats into beds instead. That was when passengers could lie down and relax, with individuals’ wristgears providing entertainment for the bored. Of course, going to the bathroom was a tricky proposition, since one would need to go up and down a passageway, but for the most part, a trip on a smallcraft was comfortable.

  But that described sailing at two daimon. In Star Forces lingo, “high acceleration” referred to velocities in excess of eight daimon. Putting aside the bodily makeup of the Abh, who were genetically engineered to withstand high acceleration, NCCs from landworlds often felt discomfort at even just three daimon. If they were to shift into high acceleration, they’d be unable to so much as raise their voices as they got pressed against their seats.

  The familiarization voyage had been hectic enough. It was simply common sense among the Star Forces starpilots to give the crew a pleasant three-hour trip afterward. That’s what Idlia would have done. Yet Ecryua was trying to reach their destination at velocities at the brink of what a human body could possibly endure.

  Ultimately, however, Sobash said nothing. He’d appointed Ecryua the Skipper — they had to follow her orders. She was a fully trained starpilot, so she’d make sure there were no casualties. If he felt things were getting overly dangerous, he did reserve the right to take back command.

  Sorry, everyone, Sobash apologized to the NCCs.

  Unaware as to Sobash’s thoughts, Ecryua conversed with Space Traffic Control. Accordingly, the pier was depressurized, and the lock gate opened.

  “Requesting electromagnetic propulsion,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, raid ship Flicaubh smallcraft,” said the Construction Site Space Traffic Control Center. “There is no EM propulsion mechanism here. You’re cleared for low-temperature jet propulsion.”

  “Roger that, Space Traffic Control. I thank you. Flicaubh smallcraft ending transmission.”

  There are those who made for capable starpilots, but not necessarily for competent commanders. And she might be one, thought Sobash as he stared at her profile. But then he abstained from speaking ill of her, and she stared blankly back at him.

  As they stared at each other, Sobash started feeling like he’d imagined that whole incident.

  “We’re taking off,” she murmured, and she moved her control gauntlet-equipped left hand.

  The trip from hell had commenced.

  Like many well-known establishments across Lacmhacarh, the Stylet was an orbital facility unto its own, serving as both restaurant and hotel.

  “This is the Flicaubh smallcraft speaking. The Stylet Space Traffic Control, please respond,” Sobash heard her calmly say.

  Thanks to the intense deceleration, half of their bodies were absorbed into their seats.

  “This is The Stylet Space Traffic Control,” said a much more fraught voice.

  “Permission to enter?”

  “You may, but please understand that if you intend to come inside, we ask that you first pass by in order to decelerate a little more before coming back around.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Vanguard Ecryua,” said Sobash, speaking up at last after noticing she was about to brake so hard it’d make even the Flight Branch Starpilots who were accustomed to high acceleration shriek, “you should follow Traffic Control’s instructions.”

  “Okay,” she nodded quietly.

  Sobash was convinced that in her heart, she had appended some truly creative and colorful curses onto that “okay.”

  The smallcraft passed by The Stylet while decelerating. At the point of closest proximity, Sobash’s frocragh sensed the restaurant as being within arm’s reach. An onlooker might have mistaken the scene for the ship grazing against the structure... or did they actually, in fact, graze it?

  It took nearly ten seconds for the gap in velocity between the smallcraft and The Stylet to reach zero. Changing direction, she revved the main engine system once and approached The Stylet the rest of the way using just the attitude control engines, which was a huge relief for Sobash.

  The smallcraft slid onto the arrival square.

  “This is your Skipper,” said Ecryua. “The ship has arrived at The Stylet. All hands, disembark.”

  They could hear the NCCs shouting with joy. From today onward, they would hold their lives even more dearly than before.

  “Now then,” she said, standing up out of her seat.

  Sobash, the Captain, was the last to get off. After a while, he went to the boarding gate. The crew were there, waiting for him in lines. At the whistle, they saluted simultaneously. This was very much an experience he never could’ve had when he was a merchant, and he didn’t particularly dislike such pomp and circumstance. While he’d also joined the Star Forces when he was younger, his life after that was characterized by interpersonal relationships of a more casual flavor, so this was certainly fresh.

  He took his time descending the stairs. Below waited not only his crew, but also formal-wear Stylet staff.

  “Welcome. This is the Flicaubh group, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Sobash nodded. “We’re in your hands.”

  “We received your reservation from the command center of Trample-Blitz Squadron 1. The banquet is tomorrow, so please, make yourselves at home today. Allow us to take you to your rooms.”

  “If you would,” he said, looking back at his subordinates. “You hear that? There’s no work for anybody today. I’ll be sending the schedule for tomorrow to your wristgears later, so don’t worry about a thing. Enjoy yourselves to the extent the law and military protocol allow.”

  What ensued was cheering of explosive proportions.

  The entry time of each ship’s crew had been set beforehand, and the Flicaubh was the last, so when Sobash led the crew to the banquet hall, the crews of the other ships were already there, with only the command center personnel yet to arrive.

  He ordered Deca-Commander Idlia to have the crew line up into two columns. Sobash himself, of course, stood in front of them. The crews of the other ships were lined up in identical files. With a large gap in the center, the crews’ respective sets of columns were face-to-face, six crews on one side and six on the other.

  The venue’s gravity level was sent to 0.5 daimon, which was the carefully considered standard for standing banquets, meant to prevent foot swelling.

  The whistle sounded.

  Sobash pulled out the command baton from his waist and held it in front of his face. This was a rite permitted only to those who bore the reins of command. The majority of soldiers, who had no command batons, saluted as normal.

  Commandant Atosryua walked out in front, leading her staff officers. She stepped onto the platform at the farthest point from the door and about-faced. The soldiers dropped their salutes at her turning around.

  “Sorry for the wait,” she said. “Bénh, tyce loré!” (Everyone, take your cups!)

  Mobile tables with the cups appeared on each side of each crew’s columns, and began moving from the back of the line to the front. Finally, the mobile table came by Sobash, and he glanced at it. Various drinks had been prepared for them, because every individual had their preferences, and some did not drink alcohol at all (like Grinshia). Sobash chose the sparkling rice wine. The Abh believed that particular beverage to be indispensable to celebrations, and Sobash was no exception. As for the drink’s container, it was made of bamboo genetically modified to be made into cups, feeling sticky to the touch.

  “None of you are yet official members of Trample-Blitz Squadron 1,” said Kilo-Commander Atosryua, though not before making sure everyone had their drinks. “At present, the only official members are the command center soldiers. That being said, Trample-Blitz Squadron 1 will eventually be formed via eac
h of your ships. Squadron 1 has nothing to boast of, but that’s not shocking considering it hasn’t been born yet. In any case, I unfortunately can’t tell you to be proud of getting into my squadron. We must build a foundation of which we can be proud. After a series of exercises, our squadron will probably be dismantled, with each ship dispersed to a new, different squadron. Every one of you is expected to serve as a cornerstone of the trample-blitz squadrons to come. Then you can hold your heads up high and tell your subordinates, your colleagues, even your superiors, ‘welcome to our squadron.’ Here’s hoping that greeting someone to a trample-blitz squadron becomes synonymous with sharing in glory.” She held up her bamboo cup. “And though I know this is a wish that can’t come true, I hope that when the Empire snatches victory, every single person here gathers again to talk and reminisce about the days they earned bounteous glory in battle. Tyce cosé!”

  With that call to toast, they cheered in response and partook.

  “All right, everybody, please enjoy yourselves. There’s only two rules — no saluting or bowing, and no playing with your food. I can’t stand it when people play with their food. It’s indecent. Outside of that, I’m permitting you to let loose a little. You can lick your plates, and you can even shake hands with cats.”

  At the snap of her fingers, even more mobile tables, this time with both food and drink, entered the venue. The soldiers broke rank and grouped around the cuisine on offer. Sobash viewed it all out of the corners of his eyes as he took up a fresh new cup. The banquet would last long enough, so the food wouldn’t be going anywhere. Right now, what he needed to secure instead was conversation partners.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, raising his cup to a close-by female ship commander. “I’m Vice Hecto-Commander Sobash of the Flicaubh.”

  “I’m Vice Hecto-Commander Serboth, Ship Commander of the Lymcaubh,” she said, smiling as a formality.

  “How is your ship?” he asked, deciding to go with a safe topic.