Shattered Alliance

by Benjamin Wallace

  The king had put an arm around the Rox Tolgath and was shaking the man back and forth.

  Malbourne stepped sideways so the hand fell away and answered the king, “Yes. I was witness to the whole event, your highness.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the king said after overcoming another wave of laughter. “‘Did you see the looks on their faces?’ It’s an expression.”

  “What does it mean?” the Rox Tolgath asked. It certainly didn’t seem like much of an expression.

  “It means did you see the looks on their faces?” The king doubled over in a fit of laughter. “When we turned on them? Destroyed their ship? Rejected their insulting offer?”

  The Rox Tolgath had to wait for the king to take another breath before he could answer. “Yes. As I said, I saw them.”

  “It was glorious!” the king shouted.

  The Rox Tolgath only shrugged. The betrayal during the ceremony wasn’t his proudest moment. Though he was hardly ashamed of it. It was a strategic move that put his emperor in control. And, as those were the ends, it was a glorious maneuver. “I take no delight in treachery. But I do appreciate its efficiency. The subterfuge was necessary to accomplish our goals. But I take no pleasure in the expressions it elicited.”

  The king gave him a strange look that was part curiosity and part disappointment. “You suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?”

  “My enjoyment matters very little as long as the Righteous Empire grows.”

  “You’ve got to enjoy your work, Rox Tolgath. Otherwise, it will kill you. Believe me, I know.” The king gasped as he was overcome with an idea. He raised a long and skinny pink finger. “We should have a party.”

  “Now is not the time for celebration.” The Rox Tolgath snapped his fingers. One of his men stepped forward and produced a leather case. Malbourne opened the lid and revealed a document. The text was divided into two columns, one for each language of the agreement. He took a pen from another soldier and offered both items to the king. “Now is the time to sign our treaty.”

  The king gave the document only the briefest of glances and waved it away. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. This treaty is a big deal. Yes? It deserves something more than a mere signature in the Chonda’thor. It deserves a celebration the likes of which Shandor has never before seen!”

  “A celebration is not required,” the Rox Tolgath said. “Only your signature, your highness.”

  “Dancers!” the king said, and spun on his heel. He was already lost in his own fantasy. He then mimicked playing some sort of complicated alien flute. “Music!”

  Malbourne watched for a moment and decided he simply did not have enough information to determine whether the king was good at air alien flute or bad at it. But good or bad, the king was getting lost in an alien flute solo and he didn’t have time for that.

  “None of these things are necessary,” the Rox Tolgath repeated. But his words were lost on the king, who pranced through a fantasy that included a bevy of live sporting events and a performance of a revered Shandoran play.

  “Just sign, your highness.”

  “A feast!” The king shouted this louder than anything and threw up his arms as his voice echoed off the stone walls of the Chonda’thor. When his voice finally faded, he snapped his fingers at the Rox Tolgath. “Yes, a feast to end all feasts. We’re going to do this right. We’re going to celebrate our union with an extraordinary amount of toasting and drinking.”

  “None of that is necessary,” the Rox Togath snapped once more, and the soldier handed him the document case. He pushed it toward the king. “All that is necessary is that you sign.”

  The king gave a polite if impatient smile and turned away. He strode through the great hall, waving a hand toward the tapestries that depicted his planet’s history and culture. “I’m sure I don’t know how you run things on your planet, my friend Malbourne.”

  The king stopped beneath a tapestry and cast his eye up toward it. Then he coughed and winked and raised his eyebrows until the Rox Tolgath looked up at the tapestry as well.

  Malbourne studied the piece. He had no idea what it was called, but the story was clearly that of a king meeting his tragic end at the hands of the people. A mob of Shandorans formed a pyramid at the base of the artwork, lifting the king up to the center of the piece. In their hands, the mob held pieces of the king. Limbs had been torn free of the monarch’s body. They held indistinguishable lumps of bloody flesh and clothing. The king wore only his crown and an expression of utmost suffering as they pulled him to pieces.

  The king let him take the image in and then continued. “Here on Shandor we’ve always found it’s easier to control the populace if you include them on things like this. It makes them feel like a part of it all. Give them the occasional party, some free food and they’ll let you do just about anything to them. So, I’ll sign your paper. I’m happy to sign it. I can’t wait to sign it. But I’m telling you, if we make a party out of the whole ordeal, things will go a lot smoother.”

  The Rox Tolgath studied the quartered king’s expression in the tapestry. It was a pain he’d seen during many conquests as the rent ruler realized he was in the process of losing more than his status. He looked at the King of Shandor.

  The monarch gave him a helpless shrug. “They are quick to anger, but oh so easy to placate. A little party goes a long way.”

  “Very well.” Malbourne closed the document case and handed it back to his aide. “But it must happen soon.”

  The king slapped his hands together in excitement. “I’ll get the party planners right on it. I don’t care how many worlds you’ve been to, my new friend, you’ve never seen a party like a Shandor party. The entertainment alone is something to behold. It will be a grand celebration of freedom. We’ll line all the slaves up and—”

  “Just make it happen, your highness,” the Rox Tolgath said with no attempt to hide his frustration. “In the meantime, invite the prisoners to a meal.”

  The king was clearly taken aback, and it was the first time Malbourne noticed a gland stand out on the Shandoran’s neck. This race had a thousand tells. Most of them were disgusting.

  “Dine with an Earthman? Why would I want to do that? They are little more than animals. I will not befoul the royal banquet hall with the likes of them.”

  “Animals they may be. But it is wise to understand one’s enemy. I’ve studied them at great length but also at a great distance. I’ve never met an Earthian before today. I would like to understand them better and for that we must meet.”

  “Oh, you’re going to hate it,” the king said with a snarl. “They’re smug. They’re pretentious. They’re always telling you what’s best for you. Judging you. Trying to take away your slaves. Can you believe the nerve? Slavery is a great Shandoran tradition. It’s part of our culture and they want to take it away? Besides, I’ve waited thirty-five years to be king and I finally, technically, own everybody. And they think I’m going to just give that all up? The fools.

  “And talk about a one-note tune. They’ve been coming here for thirty years now and it’s always, ‘Gee you’ve got a lot of slaves.’ Or, ‘I can’t believe you still have slaves.’ And then, ‘Civilized peoples don’t have slaves.’ They’re really hung up on this whole thing. Who do they think they are?”

  “They used to think they were the only power in the galaxy,” Malbourne said. “They have just learned otherwise.”

  “Good. They’ve been playing the ‘yeah but we’ve got spaceships’ hand for far too long. Like being the only people to develop interstellar travel makes them smarter than us. Sure, they had some good ideas,” the king conceded. “Their plumbing. That was a good idea. We’re using the crap out of that stuff. But I’m sure we would have come up with that eventually. And cameras—super handy. But I hardly think that gives them any right to say I can’t own someone else. I’m so happy they’ve finally met their match.”

  “Do not underestimate them, your highness. They hav
e long believed they are the dominant force in the galaxy. They will not give up their seat so easily.”

  5

  “You’re in my seat, Sargsyan,” the captain said with a swift kick that prompted an apology from the young ensign as he scrambled out of his commander’s way.

  Antarius sat down on the rocky floor and looked out the cell’s only window. It was a tower, at least. Tower prisons were his personal favorite. Not that he was picky, but he preferred being held captive above ground whenever possible. Dungeons were just too damp and, universally, had at least one skeleton per cell. Basement prisons were pretty much just dungeons with drywall. But his least favorite was the improvised hole in the ground. Half the time he was forced to dig it himself. They were dirty, muddy and usually filled with filth. In short, they were the pits.

  This cell, on the other hand, at least meant they were showing his rank the proper respect. Lesser prisoners were, no doubt, hauled off to the dungeons. But here they were, sitting at least twenty stories above the palace and he could see everything through the window.

  The sun was setting on Kartoka, and several of Shandor’s moons were rising and/or setting in various phases, causing the landscape below to dance in color and shadow like Thurgood had never before seen.

  “It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” Stendak offered.

  “That it is, Stendak. It’s about the only benefit to having your dungeon kept in a tower.”

  “The Shandorans call it Moon Swayer’s Tower. They say it was named for a princess that was held prisoner here centuries ago. Legend has it she was locked up here by a jealous lover and it was ordered that no one was allowed to talk to her. So, instead, she talked to the moons. Over time she befriended one of the moons and it became her new lover. And then one night the moon descended from the heavens and took her up into the skies above the palace where they had a child that became Shandor’s fifth moon.”

  The captain laughed. “You don’t really believe that nonsense, do you, Stendak?”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s a fairy tale for children! I can’t believe you’d… you’re a science officer, Stendak!”

  “I know it—”

  “That’s not how moons are made at all.”

  “Sir, I.”

  “A moon can’t have a baby with a woman.” Antarius laughed at the thought.

  Defeated, Stendak sighed. Then she smiled as she asked, “Just how are moons formed, Captain?”

  The captain wiped a tear of joy from his eyes and sighed. “That hardly matters right now, Stendak. The important thing is for us to find a way out of this cell and exact our very painful revenge on the Shandorans for the death of Ensign Johnson. They cut him down like he was less than a man. They cut him down like he was an animal. And not one of the lovable animals that make you cry when they die. You know? Like a beloved dog that’s become rabid, or a mischievous raccoon that became your only childhood friend only to be struck by a car when you went off to the camp where you were supposed to make real friends but were instead ostracized for your size, fortitude and freakishly good looks. No, they cut him down like an ugly animal that nobody cares about, like some kind of deformed opossum that’s missing an eye and part of its tail. And maybe has a bald spot or, what do they call it, mange?”

  “Sir, I don’t know that this is helping.”

  “It sure isn’t, Stendak.” Antarius took a deep breath and looked out the window. “Now I’m depressed.”

  “I think we all are, sir,” Stendak said. “Between Johnson and everyone on the Peacebringer.”

  “Poor guy. He was already born ugly and then to lose an eye.” Antarius’s eyes narrowed on the lowest moon. There was no way that thing was a woman’s baby.

  “So, to be clear, we’re still talking about the opossum, sir?”

  “Are we not?”

  “I was thinking of Johnson, sir,” Stendak said.

  “So was I.”

  “But Johnson wasn’t missing an eye.”

  Antarius looked back at her. “Wasn’t he?”

  “No, Sir.”

  A puzzled look overcame him. “Then who am I thinking of?”

  Before Stendak could even venture a guess, the conversation was blissfully interrupted by a pair of armed guards at the cell door. The guards were slightly larger than the average Shandoran. Broad chested and thick with muscle, they knew their place in the order of things on Shandor and spoke with authority.

  The first guard barked an order as he struck the cell door with the butt of a spear. “You will stand now, Earthman scum!”

  “We have a royal decree from his highness, Jondak King of Shandor,” the second said, and revealed an ornate scroll from a scroll case that was slung over his shoulder.

  The first guard struck the cell door with more force and shouted, “Stand in the presence of the word of the king!”

  Antarius shrugged and got to his feet and his crew followed suit.

  The second guard waited for everyone to stand before unrolling the scroll. The document unfurled to four feet in length and the guard cleared his throat before reading. “His royal highness, Jondak, son of Jondal, King of Shandor, Herald of Hymon, Dargon of Hyrole and Priest of the Grand Temple of Konjac has declared, you will join him for dinner.”

  The second guard nodded to the first to let him know he was finished reading.

  “That’s it?” Sargsyan asked.

  “Right?” the captain agreed. “That’s a pretty big production for such a little proclamation. Does the king often make such a big deal out of his little proclamations?”

  “The king has spoken,” the first guard said. “You will be joining him for dinner this evening.”

  Captain Antarius shrugged. “I don’t know. That depends. What are we having?”

  The second guard looked to the first and back to the captain. “What do you mean?”

  “For dinner.” The captain spoke more slowly and loudly to help bridge the language gap. “What are we having for dinner?”

  The second guard looked at the scroll and then back to the first guard for an answer. The first guard shrugged.

  “We don’t know,” said the second guard.

  “I hope it’s not alien food,” the captain said. “I’m not a fan of alien food.”

  “I believe the chef is preparing roast dolgrath and farmchee?” the first guard said but didn’t sound too convinced his answer was correct. “That’s pretty standard for something like this.”

  “Yeah,” Antarius said with the shake of his head. “That sounds a lot like alien food to me. Please tell the king, thanks but no thanks.”

  “What?!” The second guard held up the scroll and pushed the printed side toward the cell. Shandor was still working in hieroglyphics. “You have been invited to dinner by his majesty the—”

  “Yeah, I get that and, look, I certainly don’t want to get you guys in trouble, and he certainly seems like a shoot-the-messenger kind of king, so why don’t you just tell him we’re all allergic to alien food. Okay?”

  “You cannot say no!” the second guard snapped, and pointed at the scroll while the first guard drew a blaster pistol.

  Sargsyan whispered in the captain’s ear, “Captain, I think we should agree.”

  “Nonsense,” the captain responded. He looked the guard in the eyes. “My crew has special dietary needs and they will be met.”

  “You will come!” the second guard shouted.

  “We will not!” Antarius snapped back, matching the guard’s tone and mocking his posture.

  The first guard leveled the blaster at Sargsyan. “Come or I kill this Earthman scum!”

  Sargsyan held up his hands and backed up against the cell wall. “Captain?”

  “Don’t worry, Sargsyan. I’ve seen thugs like this before. The galaxy is full of them. It doesn’t matter where you go—Elscici Seven, Ryogen Blue or Baltimore… you’ll find men just like them. They have small minds, small hopes, small dreams. Those dreams are pathetic and everyo
ne laughs at them and no one loves them. So they like to act big and talk tough, but if there’s one thing these tiny, little, weak, small men all have in common, it’s that they haven’t got the guts to make good on their threats.”

  The alien food spread out before them was as varied in color as it was in disgusting aromas. From the table drifted odors both familiar and foreign. Together it formed a complex smell not unlike cinnamon and burnt plastic made on a rainy Wednesday next to a can of flat orange soda that had been left in a hot car for too long.

  The roasted dolgrath was a bright yellow, but the steam that came off the meat had a greenish purple hue. What passed for bread on Shandor was a bruise-colored blue lump of hardtack that gave off no smell at all but tasted like nails that had been hammered into an exposed stud in a hair salon for twenty-three and a half years before finding its way into a tire. There was nothing else on the table he could identify, so Antarius focused on the fermented drink in front of him.

  “It’s a fine drink. Don’t you think, Captain?” the king asked.

  The drink was quite good, like something between wine, a fine tequila and a warm milkshake. Captain Thurgood soon found himself thinking that if alien booze was this good, then maybe the dolgrath was worth tasting.

  No, he couldn’t let on that he was enjoying anything. This dinner was a sham. This madman of a monarch was a monster and he deserved to be treated as such.

  “You’ll answer for the deaths of Sargsyan and Johnson,” Captain Thurgood said, and pointed his strongest finger at the king and the Rox Tolgath seated next to him. “Their deaths will not be so easily forgotten.”

  “And the crew on the Peacebringer,” Stendak whispered.

  “Also, and the crew on the Peacebringer! Their deaths will not be so easily forgotten, also.”

  Rox Tolgath Malbourne smiled at the captain’s threat through pale gray lips.

  “Smirk all you want, Grayface, but you have not heard the end of this.”

  “Of that, Captain, I am certain,” the alien said with a widening smile.

  The man had purple teeth. Of course. Aliens were so weird.