Raven's Course (Peacekeepers of Sol Book 3)

by Glynn Stewart

  “My people will stick close to you and Em Leitz and keep their mouths shut and guns holstered,” Arendse promised. “I hope that’ll be enough.”

  Sylvia nodded her approval.

  “It should be. And on this ship…Felix, here, I am the only one who says anything. That clear?”

  Her chief of staff nodded.

  “As crystal, Em Ambassador,” he confirmed. “We can’t risk screwing up this mission.”

  Sylvia nodded firmly to him and Arendse as the shuttle adjusted its course, the acceleration shivering across the passenger compartment as they slowed to the docking bay.

  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The shuttlebay they landed in could have been on any ship in the former Kenmiri Empire. It would be a while before anyone was building anything that was dramatically different from the ship types favored by their former overlords—and even when they started doing that, components like shuttlebays wouldn’t change much.

  An honor guard was waiting for Sylvia, and she buried an atavistic shiver at the paired lines of black-robed-and-masked soldiers. All of the Drifter soldiers were shrouded in bulky black cloth that concealed their race and build.

  For this duty, they all wore identical plain masks under their hoods. Small gold marks at the chin of the masks served as rank markers for those with the knowledge to look, but nothing else distinguished twenty soldiers that could easily have come from twenty species.

  They were probably all Ashall, the group of humanoid races that included Terran humanity, but the robes could cover a few of the bipedal non-Ashall aliens, too. That was the point, after all.

  The Protector-Commander waiting at the other end of the honor guard was at least more obviously Ashall. Their robes were still bulky enough to conceal gender and race, but they were smoother and more shaped to the wearer’s form.

  Their mask was white and gold, the individualized patterns marking it a Face Mask instead of the honor guards’ Duty Masks. A double length of gold chain held a full-sized plain steel dagger on the middle of the Protector-Commander’s chest, the mark of their rank.

  “Ambassador Sylvia Todorovich of the United Planets Alliance,” the Protector-Commander greeted her in fluent Kem. The main language of the Kenmiri, Kem had become the de facto trade language of the former Empire and the surrounding worlds. “Be welcome amongst Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe. I am Protector-Commander Third-White-Fifth-Gold, commander of Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe’s defenders.

  “You are known to me by reputation, Ambassador, but duty demands that I ask what brings you to my Convoy.”

  Sylvia approached to a carefully measured two meters and bowed to the Protector-Commander, her people pausing sensibly behind her.

  “I appreciate your trust and welcome, Protector-Commander Third-White-Fifth-Gold,” she told them. “We approach Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe on a dual mission, ser. My companion here, Felix Leitz, has been authorized to trade precious metals for technology and supplies needed by the United Planets Alliance’s friends in the La-Tar Cluster. If you will permit, he will speak with the Quartermasters of the Convoy on trade and commerce.”

  Third-White-Fifth-Gold bowed their mask in acknowledgement.

  “But you, Ambassador, are not here for trade,” they said. “What do you seek?”

  “I must speak with the Council of Ancients of Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe,” Sylvia said formally. “I am here on behalf of the La-Tar Cluster and the United Planets Alliance on an errand of peace. We would ask that the Ancients of Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe aid us in ending the war between the La-Tar Cluster and the Kozun Hierarchy.”

  It was impossible to read expressions through the mask. That was the point—all of the Ashall shared certain microexpressions that could be learned. They were hard to learn and hard to read, but even harder to conceal. Wearing masks barred strangers from reading the Drifters’ moods and intentions.

  But Sylvia suspected that Third-White-Fifth-Gold was amused from the slight sardonic tilt of their head.

  “I have heard about this conflict, yes,” the Protector-Commander conceded. “I am inclined to grant access to the Quartermasters, Ambassador, but access to the Council of Ancients is more difficult to earn.”

  “I understand this,” Sylvia replied. “But I believe we share a common interest here, Protector-Commander. Your Convoy are traders, travelers between star systems bearing goods and news. A war, even if both sides wish to avoid harming you, is a risk to your people. Neither the La-Tar Cluster nor the Kozun Hierarchy are your enemies. Both could be valuable trading partners to Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe, but their conflict renders the area around their systems dangerous to you.”

  “The Kozun have more than one conflict ongoing,” Third-White-Fifth-Gold told her. “They have clashes on many sides, but it is the UPA that draws their ire the most. You speak of a conflict between the La-Tar Cluster and the Kozun Hierarchy, but the Kozun speak of a war between the Hierarchy and the UPA.”

  Sylvia smiled. It was a thin, sharp expression. Most of her expressions were. She was one of the few who had learned to control her microexpressions, and her face was as much a tool and a weapon as her voice.

  “The United Planets Alliance has signed a treaty of mutual defense with the La-Tar Cluster. Through that, units of the Peacekeeper Initiative have engaged Kozun units in defense of the Cluster. The only war ongoing, however, is between the Kozun and the people they invaded. Our involvement is entirely in the defense of the Cluster.”

  The La-Tar Cluster was five worlds, four factory planets and an agriworld, that the Kozun Hierarchy—once unfriendly fellow Vesheron, now dangerous ex-allies—had invaded. Sylvia had been aboard Raven to negotiate with those worlds and had helped Colonel Henry Wong, Raven’s captain, convince the Cluster to stand together and help Wong drive the Kozun from their worlds.

  “I can see how you view matters,” Third-White-Fifth-Gold said. “But it is not in the interests of this Convoy to get involved in a war between our former allies.”

  “Even to help bring it to an end?” Sylvia asked. “We do not wish the Cluster to conflict with the Kozun. We would see a peaceful trade between our former allies and our current friends.”

  “After all that has passed between you and the Kozun?”

  The Drifter clearly knew more about the fight at La-Tar than Sylvia had expected. The UPSF had lost an Initiative destroyer there to antigravity disruptor warheads in Kozun hands. There was a small but vocal component of the UPSF that wanted revenge, but the political will wasn’t there for a real conflict.

  “We are not at war with the Kozun,” she repeated. “We protected an ally, nothing more. That ally is prepared to protect themselves, even to take the war to the Hierarchy if they must, but peace is better for everyone.”

  “Especially the United Planets Alliance?” Third-White-Fifth-Gold asked.

  Sylvia sharpened her smile and was rewarded with a small, almost invisible recoil on the part of the Protector-Commander.

  “If the Kozun Hierarchy believes they are at war with the United Planets Alliance, they have forgotten how the UPSF makes war,” she told him. “They have a dreadnought and a few dozen escorts. Two carrier groups would probably be overkill against their entire fleet.

  “So, if we were actually at war, we would send three.”

  The shuttlebay was silent, and Sylvia wondered what her escort was making of her diplomatic approach to matters. She knew Drifters, though, and it was easy to get lost in byzantine bullcrap negotiating with them.

  She’d spend that time when she spoke to the Council, but there was no point to it with the Protector-Commander. She needed a decision from him now, so she would push.

  And since most soldiers only had so much patience for that same bullcrap, she suspected it was working.

  Third-White-Fifth-Gold laughed behind their mask.

  “Come, Ambassador,” they told him. “Join me for
a drink while I arrange your appointments. I am curious as to how your efforts in this Sector have fared.”

  “Gladly. I must remind you, though, Protector-Commander, that nothing is free,” she replied. “That kind of intelligence costs more than a drink.”

  Chapter Three

  The garden ships at the center of the Drifter Convoy were, Sylvia suspected, far less defenseless than they looked. Nonetheless, the ships with their massive transparent domes were hidden away behind every other ship in the Convoy.

  That made them the safest place in any Drifter Convoy and the home of the political leadership of the fleet. Shaka’s shuttle wasn’t even allowed to approach the garden ships. Sylvia made her trip to her audience aboard a Drifter shuttle, though her GroundDiv escort was permitted to come with her.

  More black-masked-and-robed soldiers greeted her as she left the shuttle, escorting her into the main area of the garden ship.

  Even for Sylvia, a child of actual planets, the garden ships were stunning to look at from the inside. The core transparent dome was two kilometers across, and every square centimeter of the surface area was covered in plants.

  The vast majority of the vegetation was edible, and even the decorative plants provided oxygen for the rest of the Convoy. The most efficient food crops from the ten thousand stars of the Kenmiri Empire had been gathered there to serve the Drifters. Passageways lined in more decorative—though likely still fruit-bearing, Sylvia suspected—trees cut through the dome toward the center.

  Glow lamps were suspended above them, each sector getting different amounts of light, heat, humidity…every part of the climate and ecosystem of the immense starship was controlled to the utmost degree possible, and there would be decks upon decks of hydroponics beneath them as well.

  Here, the Convoy was far enough from the local star that the glow lamps were necessary. In a different system, the garden ships would be orbiting closer to the sun and positioned to use natural light to reduce their power draw.

  Each ship of the Convoy attempted to be self-sufficient, but the garden ships made up for any shortfall while also providing food surpluses the Convoy could trade. They were custom-built, each one a unique and stunningly impressive achievement.

  The center of this particular ship’s dome was a circle of trees that rivaled the California redwoods some of her ancestors had imported to Russia’s Epsilon Eridani colony. The giants on Eridani were only a century and a half old…but without knowing how quickly these trees grew, Sylvia had to guess that they were at least as old.

  Which meant the ship she was standing on had been built at least that long before. The Drifter Convoys had been around for a long time.

  She was led through that ring of trees into a shaded circular amphitheater that descended toward a central stage. The benches weren’t full, but the dark red robes of the occupants said all she needed to know.

  While Sylvia was certain the Drifters were perfectly willing to shift robes and masks to confuse outsiders, the colors and styles all meant very specific things. She doubted they would do so without purpose, so those dark red robes told her she was looking down at the Council of Ancients of Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe.

  “Approach, Ambassador Sylvia Todorovich of the United Planets Alliance,” the robed Drifter standing on the central stage instructed in Kem. “You have requested an audience with our Ancients.”

  They gestured at the figures seated on the benches around them.

  “We have gathered to hear your words. We do not do this for every supplicant, Ambassador, but the deeds of your people have earned this respect. You will be heard.”

  Sylvia gestured for her guards to wait at the circle of trees and proceeded forward. Each bench was a shallow step down from the one above it, the metal of their construction a reminder that they were aboard a spaceship.

  As she approached the central stage, she realized that only about half of the figures on the benches were actually there. The rest were holographic projections, the virtual presences of Ancients on other ships scattered through the Convoy.

  Most of the Ancients, aside from any other role the Convoy put on them, also served as captains of their own ships. They were busy people—but they had made time for her.

  Sylvia concealed a smile. Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe was making a big deal of the favor they were doing for her, but there was another read to it: they knew how much the UPA could do for them.

  Or…do to them.

  Sylvia joined the Drifter on the central stage, looking up at the small crowd around her. Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe’s Council of Ancients had thirty-two members. One of them was Protector-Commander Third-White-Fifth-Gold, seated at one of the farther benches.

  That was probably a sign of their lack of seniority in the Council.

  “Has the Protector-Commander briefed this Council on the request the United Planets Alliance has sent me to deliver?” she asked.

  “You wish us to intercede between the La-Tar Cluster and the Kozun Hierarchy,” the Ancient on the stage with her summarized. “The intent is clear, though the details of what you would have us do remain unknown.

  “So, too, do the details of how our Convoy would benefit from this arrangement, beyond the unquestionable indirect value of peace,” the politician continued.

  Sylvia studied the stranger’s mask carefully, committing it to memory. Even if the Ancients didn’t give her names, the patterns of blue whorls across a silver mask that the Drifter wore would be unique. Only Duty Masks were shared, and no Ancient would wear a Duty Mask to a gathering of the Council.

  “I presumed that it would not be necessary for me to give the full details to the Protector-Commander to be granted access to this Council,” she told blue-whorls-on-silver. “If this Council is prepared to consider it, I will lay out the proposal in full measure.”

  Kem was not a liquid language at the best of times and the formal phrasing preferred by the Drifters made it even more stilted. Sylvia knew the dance, however, and she knew she needed to give the Ancients the appearance, if not the truth, of complete control of this meeting.

  “Very well,” blue-whorls-on-silver told her. “You may present to this Council.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. She turned slowly to take in the entire Council. There was no way she could see all of the Council members at once, which had to be intentional. There was more than enough space for all of them to sit in one quadrant of the amphitheater.

  “I presume you are all briefed on the nature of the La-Tar Cluster and their conflict with the Hierarchy, but I will summarize,” she told them. “The Kozun invaded La-Tar, the agriworld that fed the worlds of the Cluster, nine months ago.

  “They withheld the food supplies from La-Tar to force the surrender of the four industrial worlds surrounding it. A UPSF vessel was in negotiations with one of the Cluster governments and was asked to intervene.

  “While our ship did engage the Kozun in combat, La-Tar was liberated by ground troops provided by the rest of the Cluster’s worlds. La-Tar now sits at the center of an economic and military alliance dedicated to the mutual security of five worlds.

  “That alliance distrusts and fears the Kozun Hierarchy and has asked for UPSF help maintaining their independence,” Sylvia noted. “We have agreed to this, but we have no desire to make war on the Hierarchy. We also do not believe the Kozun wish to fight the La-Tar Cluster again, but pride and eager triggers have prevented any attempt at communication so far.”

  She looked around again, carefully meeting the drawn-in eyes of the masked faces around her.

  “We ask that Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe use your ships to make contact with the Kozun Hierarchy and establish the terms on which the Hierarchy’s leadership would negotiate with the Cluster’s leadership.

  “The United Planets Alliance believes, firmly, that if we can get empowered representatives of both states into a room, the differences and conflicts between them can be negotiated
to a resolution that requires no further conflict or bloodshed.”

  The room was silent for several moments, and Sylvia shrugged and continued.

  “Such a conference will also require a neutral third party providing security to allow both sides a sense of safety. We accept that the United Planets Alliance does not qualify and would ask that Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe act as the guarantor for these negotiations.

  “We would expect payment for that service to be split with the Kozun and hence to be negotiated later, but we are willing to provide payment for acting as a go-between with the Hierarchy,” she concluded.

  “And what did you have in mind as payment?” blue-whorls-on-silver, who still had not introduced themselves, asked.

  “I am prepared to make payment in refined palladium or refined iridium,” she told them. “That has traditionally served as our highest medium of exchange with the Drifter Convoys, yes?”

  The Drifters traded in two things, as Sylvia understood it: refined metals from which they could build ships and electronics, and technological data with which they could make better use of the materials they had.

  “It has,” the Ancient confirmed. “We will discuss this in private, Ambassador.” They gestured back up the stairs she’d come down. “If you return to your escort, they will see you to a waiting area.”

  “I appreciate the Council taking time to hear my words and consider my proposal,” Sylvia told them. “I will await your response.”

  The waiting area was the closest thing Sylvia had seen to what she’d normally call a garden on the “garden” ship. She suspected most of the pleasant-smelling flowering plants around her still produced edible fruit, but the main focus of the small space had been on beauty.

  The Drifters had even laid out a selection of drinks for her and her people, though Chief Arendse’s testing quickly warned them that all but two had either cannabinoid- or opioid-analogs in the mix.

  Since Sylvia had no intention of negotiating when high or drunk, the pitcher of water was almost empty when a robed official returned to guide her back to the Council of Ancients.