Rogue Messiah: Fleetfoot Interstellar Series, Book 2

by P. Joseph Cherubino

  “Lucky we cleaned the table, then,” Drex said, and led them into the room. The space suddenly seemed brighter.

  “Comm,” Drexler ordered, “Get me Samuel.”

  “Captain?” the Doctor’s sleepy voice replied. “What time is it?”

  “Dinner time,” Drexler replied.

  “What?” Samuel said, sleep and confusion gumming his voice. “What’s going on? Emergency?”

  “No. The opposite of emergency. Come to my quarters. Tara is here with Huey and Dewey.”

  “The boys are awake?” Samuel answered, his voice sounding alert.

  Before Drexler named Insectoid crew members, they went by names pronounceable only by their kind. Giving them titles based on 20th-century cartoon characters did not go over well with the Doctor at the time, but the Insectoids treated the names as gifts. Drexler did not know it then, but bestowing names was a sacred gesture among the Insectoid Winged species. The Insectoids viewed themselves and the ship’s crew as part of a hive, with Drexler standing at the top of its hierarchy.

  “Oh yes, wait until you see them,” Drexler said with a smile, shaking his head. “Looks like they have a story to tell.”

  And they did. Drexler ordered the mess hall crew to retrieve food from Tara’s quarters, which was an entire cargo bay turned into an insectoid terrarium. Four mess crew showed up a half hour later with food edible to both Humans and Insectoids.

  The meal was awkward at first. Drexler pulled the chairs away from the long table, as the Insectoids were too large to use them. Chairs did not fit their body design. When the Humans sat down at the table, the Insectoids squatted down to imitate the human posture of sitting.

  Drexler cleared his throat and addressed Nuva, who stood by the table trying to figure out how to proceed. “Crew member Nuva, thank you for preparing this meal for us.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Nuva replied. “I am familiar with Human feeding customs, but I am sorry that I do not know much about Insectoid ways.”

  “Well, Nuva,” Drexler said, “you are a skilled professional, so whatever you decide will be fine, I’m sure.”

  Nuva relaxed and made a decision, “In that case, I will serve this human style if that is acceptable to you, Broodmother.” Drexler noticed Nuva used the familiar address with Tara, calling her “Broodmother” instead of the more formal “Broodqueen.” The Captain knew Tara well enough to understand she enjoyed the familiarity. Something about the way she held her head told him this. The body language was very subtle, but to Drexler, it was as obvious as a human smile.

  “We are only grateful to feed. Thank you,” Tara said.

  With that, Nuva motioned to her staff, who produced two gray, lumpy husks from a container filled with syrupy liquid. They placed dinner plates in front of the insectoids and placed the husks on them with a clatter. They decided against utensils for the Insectoids, which Drexler took to be an ominous sign. There was a reason that differing species often politely declined to dine together. The Captain thought he was about to have that reason confirmed.

  The human meal turned out to be malai kofta, garlic naan bread and vegetable samosas with tamarind chutney and spicy pickles. Drexler’s mouth watered instantly. Samuel surveyed the meal with arched eyebrows.

  “Do you like Indian food, Doctor?” Gajrup asked, hopefully.

  “First, call me Samuel. Second, yes. I don’t eat like this. I usually take meal packs in my quarters or the med bay.”

  “I am aware of this,” Nuva interjected, unable to restrain herself.

  Soft laughter sounded bass tones from the Doctor’s barrel chest. “Nuva has been after me for years to come to the mess and let her feed me.”

  With all the food laid out, Nuva and her staff left the room quietly. Everyone waited for some sign of how to proceed.

  “Tara,” Drexler began, “Does your species have a feeding ritual?”

  “Ritual? I am not certain of this meaning. We usually feed in the hive, all of us together. We produce nectar and use it to cultivate larva of a domesticated non-sentient insect. We consume both larva and nectar both.”

  Drexler caught on. “That husk on your plate is…”

  “A larva pod,” Tara said. The humans eyed each other uneasily.

  “Well,” Drexler said, breaking the tension. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, then. Let’s just all eat as friends.”

  Drexler deferred to Gajrup and the Doctor, who spooned out kofta onto their plates and took samosas and garlic naan. The Captain loaded up his plate and was just about to mop up some kofta sauce when loud cracking sounds filled the room.

  The insectoids had their mandibles open wide. Squirming clusters of translucent, tentacle-like appendages extended from their mouth openings and turned the pods around in front of them. Their curved mandibles clamped down again and again. As the pods cracked open, milky-white larva escaped, to be captured by squirming tongues that pulled the food into a mouth opening behind the mandibles. It looked as if a nest of grasping, snatching snakes grew from their faces.

  Drexler could not keep himself from staring with his eyes wide and blinking slowly.

  “Wow!” he was surprised to hear Gajrup exclaim. “That is a lot of tongues!”

  Dewey’s wing covers chattered, and his legs danced beneath the table. He reached up and removed the larva pod from his face and set it back down on the plate. Multiple tongues wiped milky nectar from his mandibles. “How do humans survive with only one tongue?”

  “Bones on inside,” Huey added. “Too many teeth. Strange creatures.”

  “Forgive me, everyone,” Gajrup said. “It’s an inside joke. I just couldn’t resist.”

  Tara set down her larva pod and said something to her children in the insectoid language. Drexler recognized the universal tones of a mother’s scolding.

  “Broodmother says my reply is rude,” Dewey declared.

  Drexler laughed, “Well, this is an informal meal. I certainly appreciate the humor, but it is always best to listen to your mother.”

  6

  Margaret Fleetfoot Nautiyal had spent the last three weeks cooped up in the Forest Child Ambassador’s transport ship. She traveled with her BJP Senator husband Abhay, with whom she barely spoke. She was still angry with him for the recently revealed lies he told her over the course of their decade as lovers that included seven years of marriage. Her vigorous internal jury was still debating the case of whether or not she should remain married. Margaret only took on the journey because it afforded her a better opportunity to leave Abhay. Then, the war broke out.

  The transport was one of the last ships to escape the Trade Lanes before the Reptilians took complete control. Margaret’s other companions were her battle ax of a mother-in-law, a BJP Defense Force Colonel and her assistant, a Forest Child General, and constant, nagging worry for the safety of her brother Drexler. By contrast with the ugliness of a growing war, the lavish greeting upon their arrival at Medina 3 compounded her worry.

  The Saudi Princess herself performed the official welcome ceremony for the Forest Child Ambassador. Although the rest of his party was not part of the public reception, the private, backstage hospitality was smaller but no less elaborate.

  In any other situation, Margaret would have been moved to tears by the outpouring of authentic joy with which the Caliphate peoples welcomed their offworld guests. But the feast laid out for her and her fellow travelers felt inappropriate when she thought about the thousands of Sentient beings losing their lives a few light years away.

  Margaret did the best she could mingling with the Saudi Royal Family, members of the Caliphate government, and various dignitaries from several Caliphate worlds. The engagement felt much like the many functions she attended as the business manager for The Fleetfoot Interstellar Freight Company. More than a few of the larger contracts demanded that she hobnob with well-placed people who held the puppet strings of commerce and bureaucracy.

  When the conversation between Margaret and the Persian Ambassa
dor suddenly slipped into awkward silence, Margaret realized how truly distracted she was. The slender man in the antique, late 20th-century business suit smiled politely and sipped his fruit-infused sparkling water.

  “I’m so sorry,” Margaret said, climbing from a pit of worry. “I did not mean to ignore you. You were saying?”

  “I was saying nothing, my dear,” Ambassador Karmani replied. “In fact, I’ve been saying nothing for the entire length and breadth of our conversation. I should ask you to forgive me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have been trying to distract you with small talk when you are so clearly and understandably distressed.”

  Margaret stammered, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Apparently, neither do I. Very few humans have witnessed such horror in centuries. I believe everyone here is in shock.”

  “You are very kind,” Margaret said. She felt finally able to drop the forced smile she carried since she’s arrived.

  “Our worlds are also very concerned. The Mosques and prayer halls are filled with people praying for peace.”

  “I am afraid it will take much more than that,” Margaret said, instantly regretting the cutting edge in her voice. She feared her slashing comment offended the Ambassador, but he showed no outward signs.

  “Our greatest fear is that this may be true,” Karmani said. He fixed her with piercing hazel eyes, returning the courtesy of showing his true feelings on the subject. Margaret began to like this man. “Necessity already changes us all,” he said.

  “Ambassador—” Margaret began.

  “Please, call me by my given name, Babak.”

  “Thank you, Babak. I was just about to say how surreal this party is. Are you familiar with the story of The Titanic?”

  “The Ancient Earth sea vessel that sank?” Babak said. Margaret nodded, and Babak continued. “Oh yes. Time has turned the story into a universal human parable.”

  “Then you see the parallels here. We are waltzing in the grand ballroom while the ship is bearing down on the iceberg.”

  “And here, I thought you would say ‘while the ship is sinking.’ So you are an optimist.”

  Margaret laughed in spite of herself, and said, “Babak, if I was not sure before, I am now. You are a true friend. I love your sense of humor.”

  “My sense of humor is unfortunate for an Ambassador. It is a habit that gets me into trouble quite often. I’m glad it’s having the opposite effect now.”

  “My brother has the same habit,” Margaret replied.

  “Yes,” the Ambassador said. “I understand.” His eyes hardened for a moment, and his smile faltered. Margaret dismissed the look as an awkward moment.

  “Sometimes friendship comes to us like this,” Babak said, and his expression resumed its mild drape. “I feel the same. Now is the time to gather friends close. We have much work to do.”

  They shared news of the war as it was reported to them. Most communication throughout the Trade Lanes was disrupted. Reptilians were very keen on destroying or controlling the quantum entanglement relay stations. Word traveled mostly by the few ships that managed to escape attack. None of the news was good.

  Babak told Margaret of Nolok, the latest solar system to fall. A few weeks before, a single transport carrying government officials was able to escape the Nolok system and reach Medina 3. The escapees described how Reptilians took control of planetary food production and forced the inhabitants into makeshift prisons aboard landed freighters. There was talk that the Lizards ate other sentient beings and murdered them for sport.

  The Reptiles managed to solidify their hold on the Central Trade Lanes using the ancient tactic of piracy. Most of the Sentient Homeworlds were under blockade and bracing for an impending attack. Everyone believed that it was just a matter of time before the Reptilians began invading more populous worlds. They were waiting on their main invasion fleet. For the moment, Medina 3 was safe, but just a few light years away, Reptilian Raiders controlled the less-established systems.

  The reception wore down as Margaret, and the ambassador moved around the room as a team. The conversation was no less cordial, but weightier matters were discussed as the evening progressed. She began to understand that the reception was intended as a social lubricant. Those present used the time to set up meetings to discuss plans for survival. War plans.

  “Margaret,” Ambassador Karmani said, “I believe the Merchant Class still shakes hands on greeting and parting?” He held out his right hand.

  When Margaret gave that hand a firm grasp, she felt something hard and warm against her palm. Instinctively, she started to look down, but Babak squeezed her hand hard, arched his eyebrows and shook his head once, very subtly. “Later,” he whispered.

  “Of course,” Margaret said, struggling to sound normal, “It was a pleasure meeting you. Somehow I think we might meet again soon.”

  “No doubt,” the Ambassador replied, then slipped into the crowd.

  Sparing a quick glance around the room to make sure no eyes were upon her, Margaret carefully pocketed the object.

  ***

  After an appropriate time mingling with the top-tier dignitaries, the Forest Child Ambassador Dhohal made a stealthy exit from the banquet hall. The reception itself was a pretext to put all of the concerned parties in the same room. Subtle signals and informally coded conversations sent word to the Saudi Ambassador that Dhohal requested an urgent meeting.

  It was difficult to conceal a creature of Dhohal’s bulk among humans, but the Saudis were nothing if not masters of the veil. Nearly every action they took dressed layers of purpose. Dhohal was flanked by three nondescript bureaucrats who led him on a dizzying tour of kitchens, service hallways, back rooms, and disused corridors. A long ride in a service elevator finally brought Dhohal to the offices of his counterpart.

  The Saudis and the Forest Children shared an affinity for subtlety and refined nicety, but Dhohal dispensed with all of that to go on the offensive. He squared shoulders that were broad as an average human male was tall and fixed his bulging, grapefruit-sized black eyes on his old friend.

  “Ambassador, you already know why I am here,” Dhohal said, not bothering to sit in an offered chair set out just for him.

  “Old friend,” Ambassador Al-Khwarizmi replied. “I have seen your reports.”

  “Then you know that the Trade Union is calling on your government and your people to help right its wrongs.”

  Al-Khwarizmi sighed and leaned back in his chair. He rested his meshed hands palm down on his protuberant belly, and said, “But we have very little interest in space travel beyond the basic needs of our worlds. We have very few spacecraft and depend on the Trade Union members for the majority of our commerce. How is it that we can help the Union, especially now that there is war?”

  “Yes, Ambassador. We are aware of your interests. We just did not understand those interests to include trade in war materiel.”

  The Ambassador’s glacial countenance melted and rippled with tremors. His fleshy jowls shook, sending waves down his long, black beard. It took him a few moments to recover from the insult. Al-Khwarizmi sat up, leaned forward and placed his palms flat on the desk.

  “My dear Brother. I can only assume that the stress of this crisis has caused you to forget both our friendship and your knowledge of the history of my world. Why else would you level such an offensive accusation?

  “Until now, I believed your report to be for the sake of appearance. Surely you do not believe in your heart of hearts that my people, who have lived in peace for six centuries, would suddenly engage in the trade of war? We serve only Allah in peace and good will for all his creation. Our homeworlds are gifts of his grace and the fruits of his prophet.

  “All the efforts of my people serve this goal in government, art, craft, and science. You are aware that even our police forces do not carry arms. There is no need. We have not even a military. To further violence against any portion of Allah’s creation
offends everything we hold dear. To stray from the path of nonviolence is the greatest sin.

  “I must beg you to forgive my anger at your words and ask you to tell me why you say such things. Because you speak to me this way, I fear you no longer consider me a friend.”

  Dhohal hated what he felt compelled to say. He watched the eyes of the old human well with tears that threatened to spill down those craggy bronze cheeks. Ambassador Al-Khwarizmi was completely unprepared to deal with the new reality. So was his government. The point of this exercise was to expose the fatal blindness of his civilization.

  The Caliphate had lived so long in peace that it had forgotten everything else. It fell to Dhohal to remind his old friend of the new threats that faced all members of the Trade Union. The mission assigned to Dhohal was to drag Al-Khwarizmi and his government kicking and screaming from the light and into these dark times. He hated every second of it.

  The Forest people were once like the Caliphate. Most Sentient beings had no concept of want, war or violence before the Silicoid Wars. Dhohal often felt it a strange paradox that certain Human civilizations came to achieve balance and peace only in the aftermath of that great existential conflict. Having studied Human history, Dhohal was surprised at how quickly it seemed that Human civilizations forgot the violence of their past once they achieved durable peace.

  “Of course, I still consider you a friend,” Dhohal replied. He allowed his deep voice to soften, but behind his black eyes, he prepared to strike. “I believe in our friendship. But given this incontrovertible evidence, what else is my government to believe? Technology from your planet is in the hands of Reptilians who are at this very moment deploying it in the cause of war.”

  “You keep saying this. You assert this in your reports. I too see evidence, but I draw a much different conclusion.”

  Dhohal waited. He would not be forced to tease that conclusion out of his friend, whom circumstance now rendered an opponent. Dhohal willed the Ambassador to say those words. Only that would cement their meaning. The trap was set.