Moving Earth

by Dean C. Moore

  “The palace is lifting off, Sacrin,” the ship’s captain said. “We have already charted a course to RamRadden. Forgive me for eavesdropping, but the instant I heard the Cream shriek…”

  “You will not refer to my wife as ‘the Cream’! She is the greatest of the Cream Umbrage. You will refer to her as Farsi or as Your Highness.”

  “Of course, sir!” The captain bowed respectfully, continuing with his apology more indirectly. “As you know, the room AI would have filtered anything not meant for my ears.”

  Sacrin, calmer, nodded reassuringly. “Make sure the star lanes are kept clear and that anyone caught in them ahead of us understands they will be blown out of space-time.”

  Captain Farrell bowed and headed to the Polaris’s bridge.

  Sacrin hardly needed to be told the palace was lifting off. It was perched at the top of a hill overlooking their private world, granting him a sweeping, panoramic view of it. A lovely nature preserve, this world, or at least so Sacrin thought of it. But it was a sentient planet with a calm, spiritual, Zen-like consciousness that Farsi had assured him would buy him more time with her. Indeed, he found it easier here to push out paranoid ideations of his empire getting away from him, and easier to focus on the plots that were the real threats. If Farsi didn’t have to rein in his growing dementia, she could save her skills to helping him contain real threats instead of imagined ones.

  The sentient ship was already replacing the spectacular views of the planet as they walked through it with views of what was taking place on RamRadden. If they wanted to see space as it actually was they would have to migrate to the bridge. The data dump was also happening to Sacrin’s mindchip, but the ship was attuned to Farsi’s mind, so it could help Sacrin filter out everything but the snippets of conversation he needed to pay attention to, so he knew best how to speak to the RamRadden when he got there, being more briefed on their greatest fears by then than they were.

  “Captain, how long before…?” Sacrin asked.

  “One hour, give or take.” Farrell replied from the bridge.

  “Unacceptable,” Farsi snapped with all the moodiness of pregnant motherhood. She emitted another outcry, louder, stranger than any Sacrin had heard come from her during her pregnancy. “Gerlari, if you would open a wormhole for us, please.”

  Gerlari was the Blue by Sonny’s side. Sacrin had no idea the Umbrage could communicate across space-time without the aid of a Singularity phone. Maybe it was an enhanced ability that came to the Cream Umbrage only during pregnancy.

  “Um, it appears we are at RamRadden,” Captain Farrell’s voice came at Farsi and Sacrin over the palace’s intercom. “Aeia informs me that the wormhole that got us here has already collapsed.”

  Aeia was the Polaris’s chief supersentience.

  “Um, and, there were a few galactic cruisers belonging to the RamRadden in the path of the wormhole that were destroyed in the process,” Farrell continued. “Aeia makes her apologies but says the matter was beyond her control.”

  Sacrin tensed. That certainly would not help negotiations. Or, maybe it would. Maybe the one thing the RamRadden would fear more than Leon’s unchecked war machine, were the Blue. The more Sacrin thought about it, the more he liked the idea of turning a negotiating disadvantage into a winning hand.

  As to a Blue doing what even few supersentiences could do—open a wormhole—without even being on location, moreover—

  Just more grist for the mill come time to get the RamRadden leadership to do what they were told by Sacrin and Farsi.

  “Aeia is beaming you down to the planet,” Captain Farrell informed Sacrin and Farsi. “Unless there are any objections, initiating in three, two…”

  ***

  THE RAMRADDEN PLANET, XARUS,

  TREE TOP HIGH COMMAND OUTPOST IN THE JUNGLE

  The RamRadden fleet commander turned at the sound of the transporter beam activating behind him in time to see Farsi and Sacrin finish materializing.

  “You destroy three of our destroyers en route to reinforce our fleet in the Gypsy Galaxy and you dare to beam in here!” Damadus took a threatening step toward them, his fists clenched, before remembering the rule about approaching a pregnant Cream Umbrage. He smartly stopped himself.

  “You can thank me for doing you the favor later,” Sacrin said.

  “Why you insufferable prig! I will have your head removed!” Damadus blared.

  “In submitting to the will of Sonny’s Shadow Warriors, you are also feeding into The Collectors hands, who want only infighting and more infighting, so our resources are consumed being used against one another, instead of being thrown at them,” Sacrin explained in a perfectly calm, level tone. Thank Techa for that Zen-planet Tranquilon that he’d taken for himself whose aftereffects could be felt even now.

  “Save your foxiness for the fox, diplomat. Even if you convinced me, there’s no calling off this war. None of the RamRadden alliance galaxies will risk the Gypsy Galaxy dismantling our war machines and eliminating our sources of income. If it amuses The Collectors that we can’t stop fighting each other long enough to ever break out of their prison, so be it.”

  “Damadus, have I ever lied to you?” Farsi said.

  The soprano pitch of her voice was like a Siren summoning Odysseus, positively maddening to resist. Damadus had briefed himself on Earth history, mostly their epic heroic battle myths. It was fair to say Farsi’s tone cut through his building rage better than a Raucan blade through his intestines.

  Damadus took a deep, slow, labored, very hoarse breath. “No. Probably why you let your husband do most of the talking. You know his lies serve you better. But I’m well aware the Cream Umbrage are not allowed to lie, any more than they are allowed to bring anything but greater prosperity for all.”

  “So, then, you already know that calling off this war with the Gypsy Galaxy is already in your best interests,” Farsi said, “even if you can’t see as I can why, exactly.”

  “The Cream Umbrage’s value is not what it once was,” Damadus spoke defiantly, sounding as if he hated himself for saying it, even as the vented the last of his anger. “We have supersentients that parse probabilistic futures rather well. And they suggest this is the best course of action. Besides, we are doing far better than you give us credit for. This war will be over soon enough. Leon is overstretched, and he’s vulnerable. Their fleets are taking heavy losses.”

  Sacrin smiled, taking Damadus off guard. “Let’s hope you don’t do too well, Damadus. If Leon has to admit to Solo that he’s losing control of the situation, I hazard to think what Solo might do to help him retain control. Say impregnate the Blues?”

  Damadus, who had already turned his back on them dismissively, whirled back around.

  “Has anyone even seen a pregnant Blue in two billion years?” Sacrin asked.

  “The legends may not be true,” Damadus said feebly.

  “Ah, but what interesting legends,” Sacrin said, his menacing smile hugging his face like the blood stain on a vampire. “What was the one about the pregnant Blue who came under attack on the very day Solo’s seed was fertilized in her? As I recall, she was so enraged at the violation of a day most holy, simple revenge just wouldn’t cut it. She didn’t go after the fleet commander that had entered the air space of the one she served, or his fleet for that matter. She went after his entire galaxy, teleporting to its center, and emitting a scream that tore through space-time so violently that the entire galaxy was swallowed up instantly by the biggest galactic black hole anyone has ever seen. I believe you can still spot it in the heavens if you know which direction to look.”

  Sacrin shook his head slowly. “The numbers lost…” Sacrin continued with the taunting, “I believe we have it written down somewhere, but my mind can’t seem to hold on to such figures any more. A hell of a thing for a numbers guy like myself to admit.”

  Damadus’s eyes narrowed as if to see past Sacrin’s lies. His expression, held in check, was nonetheless betraying him as he beheld th
e holocaust to come first hand in his mind’s eye. “My fleet will withdraw from Gypsy Galaxy airspace immediately. But what will I tell the alliance? Or Sonny and his Shadow Warriors, for that matter, to keep them from bleeding the profits our war machines generate further for defying him? None of the parties may be aware of the legends.”

  “I’m sure you can impress upon them the urgency of the situation all the same,” Sacrin said. “Especially since a pregnant Blue may not care if any of you stand down temporarily. She will be powerless to resist Solo’s will to eradicate the problem once and for all.”

  “Get out of my sight,” Damadus barked with disgust and a sense of begrudging surrender.

  “I promise, Damadus,” Farsi said, “I will see that any losses suffered will be temporary, and that you will come out of this having negotiated a treaty with a Cream Umbrage that ensures future prosperity for all your people, the likes of which you could not have imagined outside of an alliance with the Gypsy Galaxy. And if your supersentients can imagine a better future for you than the one I will procure, well… I would lose my leverage, wouldn’t I? And we both know I’m not going to let that happen.”

  Damadus grunted. It was the first time he’d smiled, all the tension gone from his body, the muscles in his face relaxing like snakes crawling back to their warrens. “My people might no longer be true believers, but I haven’t lost faith in the unassailability of the Cream Umbrage.” He bowed to her. “I thank you for the concession, and for the largesse. If I must feel indebted to someone, I much rather it be one of you than any other force in creation.”

  She smiled graciously and bowed to him in turn.

  Her form-fitting red dress that accentuated her dazzling figure was nothing but narrow strips of tapestry from the waist down. The effect was very much like that of a male peacock with its plumage down. No one wanted to see that plumage raised. No matter the erotic appeal, the deadliness of the gesture would far outweigh it. And now she was pregnant, dear gods. The Blues might not need accessory fashion tech to tear through space-time…but for all the posturing, Damadus and the RamRadden had surrendered the moment she entered the room. Farsi’s unborn fetus was not making her abdomen protrude because it existed outside of space-time where it couldn’t be reached. To accentuate the fear factor, it was nonetheless visible growing inside her through an abdomen grown transparent so the baby could see into this world in advance of birth—for however little it needed its actual eyes with such a powerful third eye or sixth chakra. The dress too would become transparent over the uterus as needed to reveal the child if Farsi wanted to enhance her rhetorical sway. She already had far more than she needed as far as the RamRadden were concerned.

  Farsi and Sacrin were already beaming back to the palace ship. Aeia would not have left them unmonitored and unguarded, not even with the Cream’s powers dialed up on account of her pregnancy.

  ***

  ABOARD THE PALACE SHIP, POLARIS

  Sacrin and Farsi were no sooner on the palace ship than Farsi cried out in agony yet again, grabbing hold of the wall of the great hall to keep from collapsing entirely.

  “I’ve never seen you suffer parsing possible futures for us like this before,” Sacrin said, grabbing hold of her arm for added support.

  “The Collectors are no fools. They’re taking an active hand in stirring up these hornets’ nests, hoping to overwhelm me so I can’t keep a handle on things. Sonny is piling on, playing the same game.”

  “What of the other Creams?”

  “Doing their part. And taking their cues from me as well as their unborn children. But they are not as experienced in times of war. They may hesitate even under good counsel. Few in history have been fool enough to come up against the Cream Umbrage. They would only be securing a worse future for themselves, not a better one. A certain madness is required, or being leveraged like only The Collectors can leverage, and simply not knowing of our existence.”

  She yelped again, and slid further down the wall.

  He pulled her back to her feet. “Can you handle this?”

  “As I said before, we don’t dare let the Blues enter the stage in a pregnant state. Not now.”

  “And your son? What does he have to say about all this?”

  “He is helping with the overload,” Farsi conceded, “and with making firmer, faster decisions as to which galactic civilizations will fall into line if we get to the remaining ones in time.”

  “I’ve reached out to Gerlari,” their son said in their heads. “She has opened a wormhole to put us at the Rippa’s door. We must move quickly. Leon is taking great losses. To make matters worse, Mother’s bioprinters are down. They can no longer create replacement forces fast enough. Solo has already been forced to take desperate measures, which I advised against. But he ignored me.” He sighed. “Never a good thing.”

  “He’s siccing the Kang on the Tinka,” Sacrin said, filling in the blanks for himself. “Dear Gods. That’s one knot not even a Cream Umbrage may be able to untangle.”

  Sacrin was already changing his wardrobe to something the Rippa would consider more appropriate for an oligarch of his status. The suit would also help conceal some of his growing fragility, lending him strength in a world whose gravity was heavier than his. The Rippa Galactic high counsel had many worlds to choose from upon which to conduct negotiations regarding military warfare. But, of course, they picked the most vicious, inhospitable world to see how those seeking peace with them held up to it, to see if they had the spine to conduct such negotiations.

  Aeia was already beaming them down to Rippa’s “welcoming” center.

  ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

  ABOARD SACRIN’S PALACE SHIP, POLARIS

  Origa, currently in character as one of the palace ship drones tasked with polishing the floors, trailed behind Sacrin and Farsi, eavesdropping on their conversation. Both the spoken and unspoken parts, as Farsi reached into Sacrin’s mind to share their private thoughts.

  Origa made sure to trail far enough behind so as not to arouse suspicion, making sure her cleaning sounds also exuded a placating, droning rhythm; she briefly wondered if that was how the term “drone” originated.

  As soon as she had what she needed, and Farsi and Sacrin had slipped into their private quarters, she unfolded, origami-like, until her insides were her outsides, an she once again looked like a humanoid, albeit an android made to look like a humanoid.

  The twirling brushes she was using to polish the floor earlier, looked decidedly more menacing now spinning where her hands should be, their bristles morphed into head-removing, rapidly rotating blades should anyone have spied her transformation and was in a mood to do anything about it.

  She was still twirling the blades defensively and busting her ninja moves when she beamed out, her tracking mechanism making it easy for the Lucy Streak to lock on to her in order to handle beaming her across any amount of time and space, so long as it wasn’t beyond the prison walls of The Collectors’ Menagerie.

  ***

  THE LUCKY STREAK,

  SONNY’S PREMIER CASINO SPACE STATION

  Origa materialized next to Sonny on the Lucky Streak. The RamRadden General had finally beamed away from his favorite gaming table, a breath away from bleeding Sonny dry. “Nice of him to leave me able to still afford to turn the lights on in the place,” Sonny spat as much as bitched.

  “He’s escaping with his life, while he still can,” Origa said.

  The remark drew Sonny’s attention. “Farsi has gotten the RamRadden to agree to withdraw from the coup in progress.”

  Sonny howled with exasperation, the sustained whine shattering the eardrums of many of his guests gambling at the tables, exploding the heads of some others.

  Of the gamblers remaining unharmed … Sonny jumped from where he was standing, landing on all fours, on one gaming table after another, biting the gamblers’ heads off at the neck, or simply ripping their necks open so their jugulars could decorate the place with so many fountains of blood.
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  Of the hardier lifeforms that refused to tolerate this behavior, fighting back, not one of them prompted the Blue to leave the spot that she had been occupying earlier.

  Origa stepped up to her. “He does know this is your job, right?”

  The Blue didn’t reply. She kept her eyes on Sonny, assessing real threats to his person, and, apparently finding none, refusing to move.

  Origa assessed the carnage. “It’s not like they don’t all have backups of themselves, right, mostly anyway? And it’s not like Sonny isn’t known for his periodic theatrics. So, all is good, right?” Again the Blue showed no sign of even registering her presence.

  Sonny finally regained his composure, after fighting off the ones who wanted to make a real match of it, and killing them as well. Perhaps they were afraid to put up too much of a fight and offend their host, as pissed off as they might have been over sacrificing the night’s winnings to Sonny’s loss of control.

  When Sonny finally calmed down enough to make his way back to Origa, wiping the blood and goop off himself, and peeling off the odd clutching arm he’d severed from its holder, he said, “I want every assassin in the Gypsy Galaxy Grouping tasked with taking out that Cream bitch.”

  “Take out a Cream?” Origa’s tone included the incredulousness Sonny’s remark deserved. “Even if we could apply enough leverage to convince enough assassins to go on that suicide mission, what makes you think it could ever work?”

  “We don’t need it to. We just need enough of her attention diverted to protecting herself that she doesn’t have any mind power to spare to check any more of my moves.”

  “She would not sacrifice her value to Sacrin just to protect herself,” Origa said, speaking with more certainty.

  “Well, then, either way, we win.” Sonny glared at her as if to imply she might be next on the menu if she hesitated a moment longer.