Reality: The Struggle for Sternessence Page 2

  Looking through the wall-to-wall crystal pane that dominated the dining hall at the Memorial Palace, Duncan would now and then rest his eyes on the stars. He was the only human inside the hall, which was not unexpected in a universe where humanoid species were a small minority. But tonight, this was far from being Duncan’s foremost preoccupation.

  “If you, who do belong to this universe—and with this amazing technology—haven’t been able to handle this . . . Establishment, how could . . . what could I do?”

  As with many of Duncan’s previous questions, Leonidas offered a short answer. “The present conflict has its roots in your universe, Dahncion. Our existence has a bond with the people of your world.”

  “If I only knew that what you expect from me is something I could do—” Duncan replied.

  Leonidas reclined in his chair. “You have a rare gift.”

  Duncan shook his head slightly.

  “Inclusive, boundless, quickening,” Leonidas said slowly. He then looked frankly into Duncan’s eyes. “We call it the gift of Childhood.”

  Duncan sipped a bit more from his cup, which contained an appealing yellow juice. “We are talking about war, about my helping you out, somehow.”

  The term childhood did not square well with his own idea of himself; to him it sounded childish, trivial, not in line with his college freshman status. Still immature, perhaps not child enough, as they would say in that culture, Duncan had not understood the real meaning of the word.

  While fiddling uneasily with a circular object on the table, he mulled over his past goals and achievements, and the troubling thought of having left all his plans and life behind. And now, the new and strange expectations laid on him . . . Duncan resumed his objections, trying to convince his hosts that he was just not the person they thought he was.

  Keethia, King Leonidas’ wife, stared at Duncan with sympathy; from the glaze of his eyes, she understood he was not ready for more that night. So as a way to postpone the conversation for another occasion, the queen offered Duncan a simple thought: “Who dares have everything they wish? Who always reaches for what they dream? True strength and real greatness can only come from children, Dahncion, little children.”

  A total blackout interrupted the dinner. Red lights started blinking, and a loud alarm began blaring from outside the palace.

  “Follow me,” Leonidas said, leaving the table. Duncan looked at him without moving.

  “It’s an enemy incursion warning,” the queen added.

  Duncan got up immediately and ran after the royal couple.

  Outside the palace, a shuttle was waiting. Leonidas, Keethia, and two people in military uniforms, followed by Duncan, stepped into the vehicle. It took off at once towards the south. Duncan was in the back seat, looking through a window on his right. Keethia was seated next to him. The queen smiled mildly with a serene gaze. Worried, Duncan smiled wanly back and turned to his window. He was concerned about the situation, but more so about the matters that had been discussed that evening. On top of that, and even if he would not consciously recognize it, the prospect of not being able to see his family again for a very long time, if ever, troubled him.

  A dense traffic of orders and instructions was coming through a communicator carried by one of the two uniformed passengers. The short trip would otherwise be a very silent one. In contrast, Duncan’s mind echoed with questions, doubts, and uncertainties that would play back and forth that night and for many nights to come.

  5.

  After the enemy incursion of the previous night, O’sihn’s tactical team4 was recalled immediately. The much-needed shore leave on Realitas had been quite brief, and before dawn, the whole team was once again back at work.

  “Any questions?”

  Lieutenant5 Leepardian raised an arm. “How will we prevent enemy detection, sir?”

  “We’ll be discussing this right now, Lee.” O’sihn switched to the next slide of his presentation, displayed on a large screen on the front wall. “As we all know, the Althean system has a significant Establishment presence. Although there are no military outposts in its neighboring space, the whole quadrant is under tight enemy surveillance. In view of this, we will not use conventional military vehicles for this mission.” A diagram of a cargo vessel replaced the chart displayed. “The Althean system is a key spot within the peripheral systems of the Centhor quadrant. Freighters often cruise the region, which is patrolled regularly by the enemy. Recent rumors of arbitrary measures during Kervian cargo-inspections have tarnished the Establishment’s image in the area.”

  Kervians had never had a good reputation. They were allies of the Establishment, functioning politically as an autonomous concurrent state, independent although supportive of the Equity Conference. As such, they had authority as Establishment members. They were a strategic military factor in the war. Kervians had no qualms about performing certain tasks the Establishment would not be willing to engage in. However, the latter would never condemn such actions, wrong as they were, while quietly benefiting from them.

  “As a result, such controls have been relaxed, and the enemy is currently putting up with some smuggling in an attempt to cool down the situation.” A picture of a medium-sized ship appeared on the screen. “This is the Angel Spark. Her skipper, our friend Zor, will provide our transportation to the Althean system. He will jettison us in landing capsules for the final approach to our objective.” Zor Foxso’l was well known within certain circles of the Royal Navy. His native star system had fallen to Establishment control early in the war. Since then, he had been assisting Realitas in different military operations with O’sihn’s team.

  “Captain, sir.”

  “Paninther.”

  “Regarding our weapons: we couldn’t take down standard equipment in jettison capsules.” Ovoid in shape, compact and versatile, the small single-pilot vehicles did not offer much room to spare.

  “Althea 8 is the only inhabited planet of the system, and it’s watched closely by the enemy. Its population is loidean—phenotypically similar to us—and it’s distributed in clans that belong to young cultures,”6 O’sihn explained. “Therefore, we won’t be taking any equipment that could give us away to the Establishment, especially weapons.”

  O’sihn caught a disapproving grimace from someone sitting in the second row. “Cranehin?”

  “Sir, if the planet is under such tight surveillance, how are we to avoid detection? I mean, even if the landing capsules are small, we’re going to be a large team.”

  “Trying to conceal fifty-six capsules through a well-developed atmosphere is not an easy task,” O’sihn granted. “However, a celestial event will considerably increase our chances. The Centhor quadrant is rich in C.P.M.7 clusters. The Althean system is beginning to cross through one such cluster. SERI’s8 laboratories have forecasted that a C.P.M. nodule will hit Althea 8’s stratosphere at ten degrees from the zenith of our destination, at about 0130R,9 fifteen days from today.

  “The atmospheric characteristics of the planet will prevent most meteorites from reaching the surface. However, they will maintain a sufficiently large average size along their entry paths, which will allow us to mask our presence among them.

  “Our plan of action consists in traveling on board the YSF10 Cruiser Stalwart to the A7-9 quadrant, where we’ll be jettisoned in reentry capsules at 0115R, fourteen days from today. We’ll be drifting in space for about four hours, until 0500R, when the Angel Spark will be in position to pick us up. At 0130R, the following day, we’ll be jettisoned again from the Angel Spark towards the reentry coordinates, within the meteorite cluster. Atmospheric contact will occur approximately one hour before dawn at our final destination.

  “Upon landing, all capsules will disintegrate following standard procedure. Subsequently, we will converge on a local village of a tribe called Veridiawa. It is from there that we will organize and launch the rescue of Doctor Oyhtter.

  “Captain Clara, along with Major Shoshuar and Lieutenant Saigtin
, will be in the village waiting for us. Captain Clara and her team were sent to the planet to make contact with the Veridiawan clan, which is located in a native war-sensitive area. They have been on the planet for more than two months already, and they have succeeded in earning the trust of the natives. Questions?”

  Hostage retrieval was not one of the primary functions of O’sihn’s team. The urgency to resolve the particular situation on Althea 8, plus the severe shortage of available forces, had resulted in the last-minute assignment. Doctor Oyhtter, the mission objective, had been working on a highly classified project on the planet when he was kidnapped by a group of locals. If the Establishment learned about the incident, it would try to get hold of the scientist, who was considered a threat. “Are we going to receive any preliminary training for the retrieval, sir?” Lieutenant Tygrum asked.

  “I’m afraid not.” O’sihn turned to the screen, which was now displaying an image of a large vessel. “Upon rescue completion, we are to be picked up by YSF Freedom retrievers. The carrier will penetrate into enemy space expecting to launch and receive the retrievers back within a constrained tactical window. Any comments?” The captain looked from side to side. “One last topic: Duhn-zaeon has decided to get actively involved in this war. His petition has been accepted and he’s been assigned to our squad.”

  This came as a surprise. After having brought Duncan to Reality, no one in O’sihn’s team had expected any further direct contact with the human from Earth.

  O’sihn nodded. “This is it, Erandie.11 We shall interact with him as with any other member of our team. Let’s help him get used to the Realitian12 way of life and to the Royal Navy.”

  The time readings on the presentation screen started blinking, signaling the end of the period allotted to the meeting. “Departure is scheduled for today at 1400R. All personnel assigned to operation Shooting Star will gather on dock three at 1335R. For further instructions, I’ll be in my quarters until 1315R.”

  “Ten-hut,” Laida called.

  As everybody stood up, O’sihn left the conference room. Duncan was already waiting outside.

  6.

  Immersed in a strict communications silence, the capsules had been drifting for more than five hours. The team had been due for pick up for an hour already. Through the glassy hull of his cockpit, Duncan glanced at the shimmering hulls of the other pods. He was striving to remain calm, but breathing was becoming increasingly difficult: the oxygen levels were dropping fast.

  For the umpteenth time, Duncan looked at the digital dials and controls that were built inside the hull. “Just open the darned capsule. Everything’s gonna be just fine outside.” Duncan knew the thought was not at all rational, yet a moment later, he touched the active display of the cockpit with the flick of a wrist.

  The life-support system immediately responded in bright red, stylized letters: Warning 4256: zero atmosphere outside. Will you carry on with requested procedure (Y/N)?

  For a moment, Duncan stayed immobile, staring at the message, panting and sweating, until he finally brushed a hand over option Y.

  Fresh air rushed readily inside the opening cockpit, carrying a sense of relief. However, Duncan began breathing faster, with his mouth half open and his hands pressed onto his chest. The outside air was nothing but an unbreathable gaseous mix.

  Gasping for air, Duncan opened his eyes. He looked around startled, clueless as to where he was. A dim red luminescence spread across the deck, reflected over the sleeping bags of the rest of the team. Of course, he was onboard the Angel Spark, in one of its hangars. Duncan sat up. The thought that he had leapt over to another dream crossed his mind. But he was fully awake.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Duncan turned around. “Yeah.”

  Despite the twilight, Laida could trace the tension on Duncan’s face. “It’s only 2307.” She reclined on one arm as she checked her watch. “We still have more than two hours to the jettison coordinates.”

  Duncan grinned. “Some help I am; I’m not even able to help myself get some sleep.” He was alluding to a comment O’sihn had made in his presence that night regarding Duncan’s “newest help” to the team “to fight and win this war.”

  “It always feels like that the first time,” Laida said in a whisper. “We don’t get nerves of steel just by getting this job. It takes a lot of acclimation to many things.”

  “Too many things, I’m afraid,” Duncan replied.

  “You are no different from any of us before that first mission.”

  There was truth in Laida’s comment, though it was lacking. For drifting in space for several hours, piercing through the atmosphere of an alien planet in an alien universe, meeting unknown and potentially deadly creatures, among many other things, was much more than what Duncan could process that night.

  “What I feel doesn’t make any sense,” Duncan said.

  “What we feel doesn’t count, only what we do.”

  “That also worries me.” Duncan smiled.

  Laida made a gesture signaling him to remain quiet. Looking up at the hangar overhead13, she reached quickly into her backpack for an L.F.C. (life-form classifier).

  “O’sihn?” Laida said, nudging her husband. “O’sihn . . .”

  “Hmm,” he muttered from his sleeping bag next to her.

  “We’ve got visitors, O.”

  7.

  Barging into the cabin, a slender character—half-human, half-feline—flipped on the lights. “Skipper!”

  Captain Foxso’l had gone to bed less than one hour before, after being up for more than twenty-seven hours. Sheltering under his thick sheets, he turned on the light of his watch and groaned. “Tora . . . what’s the matter with you? I told ya not to call me up ‘til one.”

  “I’m sorry, skipper, but there is a Kervian shi . . . battleship out there. They are asking all sorts of questions.”

  “Get back to the bridge.” Foxso’l jumped out of his bed. “I’ll meet you there. And wake up O’sihn and his guys,” he added, hopping on one foot as he tried to get his other into a worn boot.

  “Aye, skipper.”

  Shortly after, Foxso’l was on the bridge.

  “They appeared suddenly in the quadrant and ordered us to decrease relative speed, Captain,” First Officer Witts said with his usual composure. “As customary, they mentioned their weapons.”

  “Have we already identified ourselves?” Foxso’l asked.

  “I have only disclosed the fake name of our vessel,” the Crimson Star. “I don’t think they have us in their records, Captain.”

  A menacing figure materialized on an old-fashioned communications monitor. “Alien vessel, this is Kervian Cruiser Vastitas. Your identification is insuff—

  “Zor Foxso’l, sir, captain of cargo vessel Crimson Star. May we be of any assistance, Commandant?”

  “Get ready to be boarded,” the Kervian replied in a coarse accent.

  “Any emergency, Commandant?”

  The alien sighed, with an expression that hardened his humanoid traits. “You’re gonna have all sorts of emergencies, mister, if you don’t brief us as to how to access your vessel right now.”

  “This is precisely what I’m trying to assess, Commandant,” Foxso’l answered, trying to buy some extra time. “Are you bringing along any equipment that may require any special attention? I’m not positive about your environmental requirements.”

  “Mr. Foxso’l, I’m not in any particular mood for your technicalities this morning, and our plasma drill has already been energized . . .”

  “At the moment, we are signaling access information to your network. We are ready to welcome you at the aft bay.”

  The Kervian bridge vanished from the monitor, as did Foxso’l from his own bridge. He was heading briskly for the aft hangar.

  With his elliptical pupils wide open, Tora turned to Witts, who had taken over the conn.

  “He will find some crazy way out of it,” Witts said reassuringly, abandoning his custom
ary reserve for a moment. “He always does.”

  8.

  The emergency hatchway flung open, and ten soldiers—heavily armed, all wearing environment-independent combat suits—jumped into the aft hangar. As they adopted the standard boarding formation, Commandant Sorton came down on a small platform. Zor Foxso’l, escorted by two of the Kervian soldiers, approached him.

  “It’s an uncommon privilege to have an Establishment Commandant on board the Crimson Star.” Foxso’l bowed reverently.

  Sorton gazed around casually, ignoring the obsequious comments. “This vessel is not registered in the Bureau of Commerce records,” he stated, refocusing his eyes firmly on Foxso’l.

  “Odd, since it’s been registered in GANSPAR.”14

  Sorton signaled to one of his men, who proceeded to check Foxso’l’s claim in the cruiser database using a hand-held terminal.

  “What is this old junk carrying at the moment, Captain?” Sorton asked, looking around distastefully.

  Foxso’l’s immediate impulse was far from friendly. But he swiftly relaxed his expression into an unconvincing smile. “This humble vessel is currently not transporting any cargo, Commandant.”

  “Hmm, I see. You and your crew just happened to pick this charming quadrant—mindless of its war status—for rest and relaxation . . .”

  Zor Foxso’l laughed loudly. “We sure need rest, Commandant, but business comes first. Our present course is taking us to the Althean system. We expect to collect some cargo there, if we’re not too late already. All those smuggling ships out there . . .” Foxso’l half shook his head and half nodded. “The natives can’t tell them apart from us—registered merchants.”

  “Excuse me, Commandant.”

  Sorton turned around. “Lieutenant?”

  “The vessel does have a PRERE,15 sir,” Lieutenant Brot added.

  “Proceed with inspection.”

  “Aye-aye, Commandant.”

  Brot left the hangar followed by five soldiers.

  Sorton stood up a few inches from the skipper and stared at him for a moment. “Captain, Captain,” Sorton sighed. “How can you possibly expect me to believe that a . . . vessel like yours would spend a millisecond in deep space without carrying any cargo whatsoever?”