by C H Gideon
Reynolds had gotten it through her head that she always needed to be ready, prepared to do what was necessary. Life and death were separated by a thin line of action and reaction. To drop one’s guard meant to surrender to fate.
Jiya wasn’t ready for that.
She’d fought too hard and too long to be where she was and who she was. She wouldn’t give that up so easily.
Once they were inside the throne room—the similarities too great for Jiya to think differently now—the doors closed behind them. Flor led them up the carpeted center aisle past what appeared to be pews on either side, all of them empty.
A three-step dais occupied the far end of the room, and a large throne sat at the center of it. There was a smaller chair to the right of the throne and an even smaller one to the left.
Jiya noticed there was a mini-dais that lifted the central chair higher than the others.
Seated in the main chair was a male she presumed was President Jaer Pon. An older male sat stiffly in the smallest of the seats, and what appeared to be a middle-aged female sat in the one to the president’s right.
She looked regal in a way the president didn’t.
Her hair was long and straight, so dark as to swallow the light shining on it. Her eyes gleamed above the sharp shelves of her cheekbones, but they seemed somewhat dimmed, like Flor’s.
Whatever the weight that burdened them, it appeared to press down upon everyone, regal and common alike. It apparently showed no favorites.
The older male looked worn too, but more due to his advanced age than any obvious stress. His hair was short and he was balding, although it was hard to be certain given the similarities between hair and skin coloring.
His one eye—the other was covered by a patch—barely held any fire at all. He stared at the approaching crew with stark intensity, but there was none of the brilliance she had seen in the rest of his people.
Perhaps he’s going blind, she thought.
“Welcome to Krokus 4,” President Jaer Pon announced as they drew closer. He rose to his feet gracefully.
Dressed in a military uniform much like those of his soldiers, the president was tall and lanky but powerfully-built, but he too looked a bit drawn. His cheeks were sunken, forcing his eyes to bulge slightly, and his jaw jutted like a granite cliff overlooking the sea.
“Mister President,” Flor began, offering a shallow bow to person on the main chair. “I bring you the crew and captain of the Superdreadnought Reynolds of the Etheric Federation.” She turned and pointed to each of the crew in turn. “This is Reynolds, the AI I told you about. Beside him is Jiya Lemaire, Geroux Durba, Ka’nak, and Adrial Maddox.”
She stepped to the side, ushering the crew to the dais steps.
“May I present Minister To Gul,” she said, gesturing to the old male, “Vice President Shal Ura and, of course, President Jaer Pon.”
“It’s our pleasure to meet you, Mr. President,” Reynolds told Jaer Pon. The rest of the crew bowed their heads in greeting.
The president came down the stairs without hesitation, and Jiya saw his guards snap-to and move closer. He didn’t seem to notice their disconcerted looks as he extended a hand to Reynolds first, then the others.
Jiya grinned as she shook his hand quickly, letting him move on to the rest of the crew. Once he was done, he didn’t bother to step back. Jiya could see his guards weren’t happy about that either.
While she didn’t know enough about the president to trust him, she couldn’t help but like his forthrightness. While he, too, looked as if it had been a long, long time since he’d enjoyed a good night’s sleep, his smile appeared genuine.
It was the first real smile she’d seen since they’d arrived.
She certainly hadn’t expected that to come from him.
Vice President Shal Ura came down to stand beside him once the handshakes were over.
“My assistant Flor Alar tells me you have come to negotiate trade between our people. Is that correct?”
“It is,” Reynolds replied. “We believe there is much we can offer one another, especially given the circumstances into which we arrived.”
The president nodded. “Yes, about that…”
Reynolds gazed at him expectantly, and Jiya made sure her expression was as neutral as it could be. Although they’d danced around their mission to Flor, it would be harder to do so with the president and not find themselves coming off as insincere.
“I have been tasked by my Queen, Bethany Anne of Earth, to track down and capture an escaped convict of some value,” Reynolds lied. “We were tracking his energy signature and believed he had come this way,” he explained. “We hadn’t expected to arrive in the middle of a fight, nor had we any intention of involving ourselves.
“However, the attack upon our ship necessitated a response, and it was clear that the Orau were the aggressors. We responded accordingly.”
“For which we are grateful,” Jaer Pon told him. “Your timing was quite fortuitous.”
“No more than a coincidence, I assure you,” Reynolds went on, trying to diffuse any connection between the SD Reynolds and the Orau in the eyes of the Krokans. “We lost track of our quarry in the chaos and decided it would benefit us both were we to reach out to you and offer a trade.”
Jaer Pon nodded. “Not the least of which, as Flor explained, is a defensive system that would protect our planet from Orau attacks?”
“Most certainly,” Reynolds answered. “Since it is an automated system it would open none of your soldiers to risk while using it, leaving the fighting to a fleet of ships permanently stationed in orbit above Krokus 4.”
“That sounds wonderful indeed,” the president replied. “And in return for this system?”
“We ask for safe harbor in your space for future visits and food stores and basic necessities when we are docked here, and we would like to examine the technology behind your water filtration system.”
Jaer Pon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I can guarantee the first two of your wishes, certainly, but I’m hesitant about the last, given the sensitive nature of the technology. Should it fall into the wrong hands, it might well be used against Ocelora and my people,” he explained.
Reynolds said nothing, only offering a shallow nod as the president appeared to contemplate the offer before him.
Jiya wondered what he was thinking.
She hadn’t imagined the filtration system knowledge being used as a weapon, but that was her kindness showing.
She had no doubt that Maddox, Reynolds, and Ka’nak had already thought of a dozen ways in which the tech could be used against the Krokans.
Jiya glanced at Geroux and saw a similar thoughtful expression warping her features. She knew, however, that Geroux wasn’t picturing destruction or death. Rather, she was picturing a multitude of ways she could put the filtration system to better use than simply installing one in the SD Reynolds.
Jiya smiled at her friend, the young scientist. Her kindness and generosity were but a few of the characteristics that made Jiya love her so.
The vice president leaned in and whispered something into the president’s ear. He nodded in agreement or at least acknowledged he’d heard her, and turned his regal stare upon the crew.
“I find I must discuss this deal with my people before I commit to anything,” he told them. “I cannot enter to such an agreement lightly.”
“I understand,” Reynolds replied, having expected that answer.
The Krokans needed to evaluate the quid pro quo.
“Flor Alar will show you to your quarters while I meet with my advisors and the vice president,” Jaer Pon said. “Once we have made a decision, we will reach out to you for further discussion.”
“Thank you,” Reynolds told the president, backing away a step. The crew followed his example.
The president and vice president said their farewells and returned to their seats as Flor ushered the crew out of the throne room and deeper into the compound.
&
nbsp; After a short, winding walk, she led them past a handful of guards on duty before an opened door, waving them into the guest chambers beyond.
The rooms were simple, yet ornate in their own way. While they only contained the barest of usable furniture, there was art and statues and all sorts of tapestries and rugs bringing the rooms to a busy life.
While the rest of the compound had been tastefully decorated, these guest chambers were an example of excess. Flor remained standing by the door as the crew made their way into the suite of rooms.
“Servants will be by with food and drinks shortly,” Flor told them. “Then, as soon as the president has made his decision, he will send me to collect you. Please make yourselves at home, and speak to any of the soldiers at the station down the hall should you need anything.”
She turned on her heel and marched out the door, easing it shut behind her.
Jiya expected the sullen click of a lock, but there was none. Flor had left it unlocked, trusting the cadre of soldiers outside to keep the crew in place until she came to get them.
Jiya smiled at that.
She hated being locked up.
Chapter Five
“How could you not see the mine, Clevon?” Jora’nal asked, still furious that his helmsman had flown them directly into a trap laid by the Federation slags.
“Forgive me, master,” Clevon begged, dropping to his knees before Jora’nal and clasping the hem of the captain’s’s robes. “Forgive me.”
Jora’nal closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath to calm his fury. Clevon had served him well since they’d left Loranian space, but Jora’nal’s master would not react kindly to incompetence.
It was one thing that the clever AI known as Reynolds had determined that Jora’nal’s ship had been following their Etheric energy signature through the Gates, but it was another entirely to have the Federation ship set a trap for them.
Jora’nal let the breath out slowly. He reached down and set a hand on Clevon’s head, resting it there. “I forgive you, Clevon,” Jora’nal told him.
The helmsman sighed and slumped beneath his hand.
“Phraim-‘Eh, however, does not forgive failure,” Jora’nal stated, his voice cold.
He grasped a handful of Clevon’s hair and lifted his head so that they were eye to eye.
“No, master. No!” Clevon shrieked, pawing at Jora’nal’s hand, but it was no use.
Jora’nal drew a dagger from the folds of his robes and dragged it across the helmsman’s bobbing throat.
Clevon screamed, the sound turning into the quiet burble of a river as blood and air spilled from the wound in his neck. He thrashed and kicked but Jora’nal held him fast, letting him slide around in the growing pool of his life’s blood.
He stared at Jora’nal, still desperate to be forgiven. His eyes were wide with terror, yet there was still a kernel of hope there—a clinging, frenzied hope like a prayer on the lips of a person dying.
And that it was.
The hope died an instant before Clevon did, the life draining out of both and going dark.
Jora’nal released the former helsman’s hair and let him fall to the deck of the Loranian cruiser. Final twitches racked the body, then it went still as Jora’nal stood over it, admiring his handiwork.
“Netri!” Jora’nal called without bothering to look away from the dead male at his feet. “You are our new helmsman. Thank Phraim-‘Eh for his exalted generosity and take your position.”
“S-sir,” Netri muttered, his voice strangled. Jora’nal smiled as he heard the crewmember’s whispered prayer to their god, amused to note that although the new helmsman truly believed in Phraim-‘Eh, he had no expectation that the god could hear him.
Jora’nal laughed because he knew Phraim-‘Eh heard everything through the Voice, his messenger, who’d come to visit Jora’nal and inspired him upon this pilgrimage.
“Someone clean this mess up and launch the body into space,” Jora’nal ordered. “I will not be reminded of his failure, nor do I want to smell his stinking corpse any longer.”
Several of the crew leapt to be the first to follow Jora’nal’s directive, desperate to avoid being the next sacrifice to the great god. Jora’nal grinned to see them clambering over one another in their desperate need to serve or their haste to avoid Jora’nal’s anger. Fear kept them in line. Fear kept them on edge.
He knew they needed a lesson now and again—a reminder that Phraim-‘Eh expected perfection of them—or their dedication to the god might wander.
Jora’nal couldn’t have that. Their mission was too important.
But it was a fine line he had to draw between terror and discipline, inspiring his acolytes to action without pushing them into reaction or making them so afraid that they could not function.
“Excellent work,” Jora’nal told the cleaning crew.
He offered them a toothy smile before turning to look at his XO, a haggard disciple by the name of H’ron.
“Report!”
“The mine was apparently cloaked, Master,” he replied, voice strong and confident. “The Reynolds left it in the wake of their Gate passage, and we can presume there will be more should we choose to follow them directly.”
“Then let’s not do that, shall we?” Jora’nal replied, glancing at the new helmsman. “Set a course to follow the Federation ship, but stay wide of their exact coordinates to avoid another mishap.”
“Unfortunately, Master,” H’ron said, interrupting, “we will need to facilitate repairs before we Gate again.”
Jora’nal spun on the XO, eyes blazing. “Why is that, commander?”
“The mine blew a sizable hole in the hull since the shields on that side of the ship were not activated at the time,” he explained, although he intelligently kept his distance from Jora’nal. “Should we Gate with the hole only partially repaired, we will lose atmosphere and damage the ship even more, likely making us lose weeks, if not more.”
“How long will repairs take, XO?” Jora’nal barked.
“The day, maybe less if I press the crew,” H’ron answered.
“Then, by all means, XO H’ron, press the crew,” Jora’nal told him. “Press the crew hard.”
XO H’ron spat out an affirmative and stormed off the bridge to follow orders. Jora’nal returned to the captain’s chair and dropped into it with a snarl.
He waited until his rage subsided and the furious quaver left his voice, before calling out to his navigator.
“V’ren, can you plot the course the Federation superdreadnought took after they dropped their precious mine?”
“The exact course is easily tracked, Master—” the navigator replied.
“Which means there’s another mine or two awaiting us,” Jora’nal stated, cutting him off.
“Yes, exactly so, Master,” V’ren went on. “Although I cannot accurately plot the follow-up course they took after Gating out a second time, I have an idea where they might have gone based on the nearby systems.”
“Would you stake your life on this guess, V’ren?” Jora’nal asked, not even bothering to glance at him.
“I would,” the navigator replied confidently, which pleased Jora’nal. “Of the three closest systems, only one emanates Kurtherian energy signatures, Master.”
Jora’nal laughed. “Of course,” he nearly shouted, realizing the navigator had to be correct. The SD Reynolds had been tracking the energy signatures, using them to point the way.
And perhaps that was how they spotted us, he thought, wondering.
“I presume we, too, project some measure of Kurtherian signal due to the makeup of our ship, correct?” Jora’nal asked.
“We do, although it is subtle,” the navigator stated.
“Yet if the Federation ship can track Kurtherians across the galaxy, it must be enough for them to detect, wouldn’t you think?”
V’ren agreed.
“Then perhaps we need to experiment with a way to shield our signature. Muffle it or perhaps
block it entirely. What do you think, Navigator?” Jora’nal questioned.
“I’ll investigate our options immediately, Master,” V’ren told him, and began reaching out to various departments over the comm.
“Good,” Jora’nal told his navigator, grinning all the while.
He activated the viewscreen and tuned it to show the ongoing repairs on the hull. Seeing the black char and wreckage soured his mood, yet he continued to watch for a few moments before finally turning it off in disgust.
A thought struck him.
“You stated that the Federation craft was tracking Etheric energy signals, Navigator V’ren, which was how you determined the likely location of the Federation ship,” Jora’nal said. “Does that mean they went to the Krokus system?” he asked, picturing the star charts in his head.
“That would be correct, Master,” V’ren replied. “I can’t, of course, ascertain if they are still there, but that was their most likely destination. And should they follow their previous routines, they are probably still there interacting with the locals.”
Jora’nal chuckled. “If it’s interaction they’re after, perhaps we should assist them,” he suggested.
“How so?” V’ren asked.
“The most likely destination for the Federation slags would be Krokus 4 if I remember my charts correctly.”
“That would be my guess, Master,” V’ren replied.
“Then I think it is time to send a message to our allies in the area,” Jora’nal told the navigator. “Bring up a subspace channel for me. I will reach out to see if our quarry has alighted in the Krokus system,” he said. “If so, then I believe we might be able to earn back the day we’re losing due to repairs.”
Jora’nal let out a loud bark of a laugh.
“And perhaps we can pay them back for the indignities they’ve forced upon us while we’re at it.”
“Channel open, Master,” V’ren announced.
Jora’nal waved him to silence, reaching out across space in hopes of a miracle.
Phraim-’Eh will provide, he assured himself.
And soon there would be blood.
