“It was inevitable.” Symeon started down the grassy hill, feeling exposed in the open.
“What do you mean?”
“The Shorvexan Empire—any empire really—stands always in danger of rebellion. One family rule entices other families. Why answer to another, when you might take the throne?”
A landing ramp descended at Kavya’s approach. Her pilot-captain, a Shorvexan named Yury Dudin, hurried down the gangway, his field helmet buttoned tight by the strap under his chin. “My Lady! I thought you dead! Come inside, quickly.”
“Make the ship ready, Yury,” said Kavya as she and Symeon clambered aboard. “I want off this moon, now!”
Yury, who had remained by the ramp to see it properly closed and the outer door sealed, turned to Kavya, a small laser pistol leveled on her navel. “I’m sorry, Lady, I cannot do that. Your father’s orders. You are to remain here until he sends for you.”
Symeon had nearly forgotten the gun in his hand. It came almost as a surprise to him when he flicked it up and shot Yury Dudin once in the throat and once in the solar plexus. The pilot-captain crumpled like old laundry.
Kavya yelped and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Symeon murmured. He placed the gun on a sideboard near the door—couldn’t let go of it fast enough—and stood rubbing his offending hand on his pants as if he might wear away the stain of murder.
“No. You did right.” Kavya’s voice trembled in her throat despite her encouraging words. “We must get away from here.”
“Are you certain?” Symeon asked. “If your father wins, you will be safe. We both will.”
“I want no part of this bloody insurrection.” Kavya’s eyes welled with tears. “I want no part of him.” She looked about the ship’s luxurious space without lingering on the pilot-captain’s body. “Only one problem, we have no pilot.”
“If you’ll allow me, I believe I can fly the ship.”
Kavya tilted her head to one side. “You?”
Though Luxing slaves served in many capacities, the law forbade them from becoming soldiers or pilots. Even practicing flying in a simulator could result in stiff punishments.
Already, the torrent of information pervading Symeon’s mind had switched to all things flying. He pushed past Kavya to the cockpit and claimed the pilot-captain’s chair. Though the layout differed somewhat from the many control panels Symeon saw in his mind’s eye, the ship’s piloting interface shared a distinct family root with several he knew in depth. By rote, his hands flew across the controls, keying an engine startup. In seconds, the ship was primed for flight.
“Strap in,” Symeon called over his shoulder.
Kavya looked ready to argue but sensibly took the co-pilot’s chair instead.
Symeon got the ship off the ground and pushed the engines, immediately, to full thrust. He had no intention of lingering above the palace like some target for a gun-happy guard. Inertia slammed him and Kavya against their seats, though the dampeners managed to siphon off most of the fog-inducing g-forces.
“Father brought every ship at his disposal.” Kavya pointed at a holographic display the ship’s computer had automatically focused on the battle to starboard. They had cleared Bastrayavich’s atmosphere and could, now, clearly make out several craft firing on one another.
Symeon nodded. “Looks like Zubkov allied with him. Those three spinward of the battle belong to him.”
“Will they fire on us?” Kavya met Symeon’s gaze, daring him to lie to her.
“I doubt it. They have their hands full just now, but I don’t think we should stick around.”
“Question is, where do we go?” Kavya called up a holographic image of Phoenix. “No matter who wins, I lose. Father will call me a traitor for abandoning him, but so will whatever loyalist beats him. I’m dead either way.”
“We’re dead either way.”
Kavya regarded Symeon for a long moment, her cool gaze like ice on his cheeks. “Why did you say an empire invites rebellion? What else is there?”
“A thousand different forms of rule. Some more successful than others, given the test of time. But despotism always loses out, eventually, because the means of attaining power in such an environment remains extant to those willing to wield it against the current rulers.”
“What’s happened to you, Symeon? Where’s the brilliant, yet quiet, servant, yearning to please, whom I picked up on Phoenix this morning? And who is this man who can run through a gun battle and pilot a spaceship?”
Having altered orbit to avoid the fight, Symeon coaxed the lady’s ship to break from the moon’s embrace on a high trajectory that would allow them to slingshot off its primary, Prahbog. He did so without conscious thought, but when he saw the planned track, he knew it was right.
“I want to say I don’t know, but that would be a lie.” Symeon turned to Kavya and met her eyes without deference, as an equal. “Did you wonder what he meant when the emperor said the Luxing had struck a bargain with these Bith aliens a thousand years ago?”
Kavya nodded but said nothing.
Slowly, so as not to overwhelm her, Symeon told Kavya about his people, the gentle Luxing, who had long ago settled a star system—about their accidental discovery of artificial intelligences of unknown origins, and how they eventually became an integral part of Luxing society.
And he told of the Shorvex, how they too had settled a star system, only to break into warring factions. Hatred and rivalry between their peoples had eventually led to nuclear, biological, and even genetic warfare which had rendered their home world uninhabitable. As a consequence, the Bith had closed the Shorvex’s gate, cutting them off from the greater galaxy. Forced to become vagabonds, the remnant of their once great civilization plied the depths of space in search of ships to plunder.
“And that is how your people happened upon the Luxing after our home planet was destroyed by a wayward gas giant. They hijacked our ships, killed our sleeping adults, and turned the infants, like me, into slaves.”
“I—” Kavya shook her head. “I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t. Your history was buried and, eventually, forgotten.”
Kavya held up a hand and stared at it. “Silver-blue isn’t a natural, human color.”
Symeon shook his head.
“Nothing about the Shorvex is natural, is it? We’re usurpers. Pirates.”
“No. You’re people. And people make mistakes.”
“I believe it, all of it,” Kavya said. “But you won’t convince the divors. Whatever boyars survive my father’s coup are going to be just as bullheaded and dangerous as their predecessors.”
“I don’t plan to convince them,” Symeon said. “Not yet.” They had made one orbit of the planet Prahbog, and he keyed the ship to slingshot away from it on a trajectory toward the outer system and the new gate that hung there like a beacon.
Kavya eyed the flight path for a moment before giving Symeon a single, decisive nod. “Do you think they’ll let us through?”
Symeon fished his adoptive mother’s yellow babushka from his coat pocket and held it to his lips for a moment. Still squeezing it tight, he pressed a button, his eyes steady on the holo-recorder. “Great builders known as the Bith, my name is Symeon Brashniev. Long ago, you contracted with my people to forestall building your gate in this system for a millennia. Unfortunately, during that time, we were enslaved by a hostile force. I have little with which to barter, but my cause is just. I seek passage through the gate to find help for my people. Will you let me pass?”
The response, which took nearly thirteen minutes to come back, was terse and to the point.
“You may pass.”
* * * * *
David Alan Jones Bio
David Alan Jones is a veteran of the United States Air Force, where he served as an Arabic linguist. A 2016 Writers of the Future silver honorable mention recipient, David’s writing spans the science fiction, military sci-fi, fantasy, and urban fantasy genres. He
is a martial artist, a husband, and a father of three. David’s day job involves programming computers for Uncle Sam.
You can find out more about David’s writing, including his current projects, at his website: https://davidalanjones.net.
# # # # #
Salvage: The Judas Gambit by Brad R. Torgersen
The space combat helmet clattered across the polished stone floor. A fireburst insignia of gold and red decorated one side of the helmet’s brow shield, the sight of which caused a hushed exclamation among the Uldarra Council members currently gathered for an emergency quorum. Fighting was a constant companion for the Uldarra Colonies, it was true, but this was the first time an Uldarran noble had chosen to bring war against her own people.
“There can be no question now,” Councilman Nyfid said, aiming his index finger at the evidence he’d recently removed from a bag and thrown to the ground.
Overlord Vo—whose house had rested comfortably in the Overlord’s chair for close to five generations—placed a thick-fingered hand to his brow and rubbed his palm slowly down his sunken-eyed face. The old man had not gotten much rest these past six months. Not since his beloved niece had seemingly turned traitor.
“Are we so sure this isn’t a false flag?” asked Councilwoman Jazlin.
Nyfid scowled at his Council nemesis. Jazlin was the matriarch chosen for Vo’s niece and nephews, since Vo’s wife had died in childbirth, along with their first-born, and tradition dictated that no Overlord could remarry after assuming the throne. There were too many hungry elders eager to place their daughters in position for the Overlord’s hand. Too many political honeytraps.
Vo had, therefore, devoted his paternal attention to his sister’s children, one of whom now threatened to bring down everything the Uldarra Colonies had worked for across a thousand human years of toil and struggle.
“Do not pretend our eyes lie to us,” Nyfid said calmly. Having sparred with Jazlin in the past, he knew better than to let his temper drive his tongue. Speak with truth and force, but not with anger. That had been Nyfid’s father’s way. And when Nyfid, himself, had ascended to the Council, he’d done his best to carry on in his father’s tradition.
“But what do we have to go on, other than circumstantial evidence?”
Jazlin stood up from her seat and proceeded out onto the stone proper. She gently stooped and retrieved the helmet, running a hand along the fireburst, before tucking the helmet under one arm.
“Explain,” Overlord Vo ordered glumly.
“Sire,” she said, turning to face the large chair in which Vo sat. “We have, as yet, no concrete proof that the raids are being conducted by Heir Taga, nor by any of her compatriots. When you sent them through the gate—with full Council approval, I might add—she was as loyal to you and this Council as any of the rest of us. Without a motive, what could possibly be driving Heir Taga to do these things? And why would any of her people follow her? Their oath to us supersedes their oath to an Heir. Yet each of them is apparently doing her bidding, without a single defector. How? And why?”
“Almost a thousand people died during the last attack,” Councilman Nyfid said, drawing Vo’s attention away from Jazlin. “Whoever they are, they know our flight schedules and are able to rapid-penetrate our planetary defenses without detection. How many of the Colonies have to be hit—and hit repeatedly!—before we act with overwhelming and lethal force? Heir or not, Taga’s fingerprints are all over these atrocities. Her sigil marks the equipment the raiders abandon after each strike.”
“Which is precisely my point,” Councilwoman Jazlin said, still holding the helmet under her arm. “How convenient is it that we never capture any of these elusive people? We have never recovered so much as a single enemy body. But they are generous with the clues they leave behind. Clues which seem designed to herd this Council into drawing one inescapable conclusion.”
The Council murmured for a long moment, as Jazlin’s point hit home.
Two of the Council Security advisors—who typically flanked the Overlord—leaned in to speak quietly in his ears. Then they sat back, while the Overlord dourly made his pronouncement.
“Contemplating Taga,” Vo said gruffly, “is now akin to nursing a toothache on the verge of abscess. We have heard nothing from her or her companions since shortly after their departure. We have invested an absurd sum paying the Bith to use their Galaxy Network in a vain search for Taga’s whereabouts. It is entirely possible the intrigues of Salvage System have swallowed them whole or turned Taga’s mission against us. I know it is absurd to consider, Jazlin, for I love Taga, and now must consider facing my own blood perverted against me. But Councilman Nyfid is correct. We cannot risk further raids. At first, we lost only outposts, but this time, they hit a major installation. Civilians died, along with our brave officers and men.”
Nyfid allowed himself a small smile. He’d anticipated more heel-dragging on the Overlord’s part. But Vo was not stupid, nor was he a wasteful and indulgent ruler. The Uldarra Colonies survived because the Overlord and the Council co-willed it. They had carved a place for themselves in the stars. Despite overwhelming odds and sometimes against intelligent creatures who regarded men as mere insects.
There could be no softness now. Not even for an heir who’d tragically lost her way.
“Before we fully commit ourselves,” said a new, younger man’s voice, “I volunteer to go and determine the facts so there can be absolutely no question!”
Nyfid’s smile dropped to a frown. He’d wondered why Heir Griboth was in attendance. The oldest son of Vo’s sister, Griboth had a full command in the Uldarran fleet to rival that of Taga. A seasoned fighter, Griboth, nevertheless, was Taga’s younger brother. It had been Nyfid’s intent to convince the emergency quorum that Griboth and his men not be committed to the prosecution of Taga and her traitors.
“I commend Heir Griboth for his redoubtable courage,” Councilman Nyfid said. “But he and his command are needed for the main defense. Or have we all forgotten why we were willing to send Heir Taga off to Salvage System in the first place? We of the Uldarra Colonies are in no position to show our neighbors weakness. Our people have fought and bled for what we have. Taga’s mission was to find some way—some technology, some alliance—which might offer us a distinct advantage so that we could not only permanently repel our enemies, but take new ground for a change! That plan is now in ashes. We can’t spare Heir Griboth for any kind of expedition.”
Nyfid locked eyes with the Overlord. He knew he was making perfectly practical sense. But this was Vo’s flesh and blood they were talking about. Even a patriarch’s wisdom could be clouded by sentiment where family ties were concerned. If need be, Nyfid had enough support in the emergency quorum to overrule the Overlord by two-thirds majority, but that would be an option of last resort. It would leave a great political rift in its wake. Overlords—and their supporters in the Council—long remembered such things. Nyfid would purchase a long-term struggle for political survival, in exchange for a short term, pragmatic victory.
Again, the Council Security people leaned close to the Overlord, speaking quietly in his ears.
The Overlord steepled his fingers under his chin.
“I am moved sufficiently by Councilman Nyfid’s wisdom. Griboth’s command cannot be taken from the main force.”
Nyfid allowed relief to flow through him.
“But,” Vo continued, “I am also not eager to commit any of our tactical reaction assets to a mission of pure fratricide! I want the words from Taga’s own lips. Why she did it. Why her people have done it. Heir Griboth, you will take a single ship. Onboard will be Councilwoman Jazlin. And Nyfid too. Together you will find out—beyond all question—who is behind these attacks. And for what purpose.”
Nyfid felt the blood drain quickly from his face as a small uproar swept the room. It was unheard of to expose a Councilman to combat. Most of them were veterans in one form or another, yes. But that had been many years ago, and they were all old m
en and women now. Long past the age at which the adventure of interstellar space beckoned.
“Overlord, if I may—” Nyfid began, but he was cut off.
“It is decreed,” Vo said, picking up the heavy steel hammer from the armrest of his chair and pounding it three times on the small table in front of him. Each blow struck with ear-splitting force.
Nyfid stared at both Jazlin and Heir Griboth, then reluctantly began making a mental list of all the things he’d need for the voyage.
* * *
“A hundred billion suns,” Councilwoman Jazlin said, as she gazed at space through the wraparound meteor glass of the ship’s main bridge, “and we fight tooth and claw to keep just one of them.”
“A home is worth defending, even if modest,” Heir Griboth said. He reassuringly patted a hand on one of the structural support columns which stood perpendicular to the floor. Machinery under their feet ensured that everyone felt more or less normal gravity—if there was such a thing as normal gravity, considering the fact the Colonies consisted of seven terrestrial planets, five large gas giant worlds, over one hundred different moons, and the many different asteroids which circled in two diffuse belts.
Flamediver was not a ship of the line. Not in the usual sense. She was a Council-commissioned one-off, with the missile decks of a frigate, the staterooms of a royal yacht, and engines to put the fastest corvette to shame. She’d made the Uldarran colonial gate in better than average time, with plenty of fuel for a dozen such in-system voyages once they were on the other side.
Like any other human ship, Flamediver had no hope of reaching other systems without the Bith and their ancient gate system. Which—Nyfid had often heard it rumored—even the Bith, themselves, had not built, as ancient as their species was. Rather, the gates had been found—perhaps inherited?—from some long-ago race of beings which no longer inhabited this particular part of the Milky Way.
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