A Planet Too Far: Beyond the Stars, #1

by Nick Webb

  Xenecia pursed her lips, waiting while the regents cycled through their script.

  “Unfortunately, word of your exploits cannot leave this room,” the first regent said in a thin, piping voice. His was the most removed, dispassionate.

  Their ruling in and of itself was not entirely unexpected. Xenecia was hardly foolish enough to believe she would be celebrated for her role in preventing the station’s destruction, not after leading its would-be saboteur directly to her objective. She knew that now. Still, something about their demeanor, the way they were feting her, stroking her ego… it gave her the unnerving sense that it was all in preparation for something much less desirable.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, “it is the summation of this Triumvirate that all involved would benefit most were you to relocate your residency off-station.”

  And there it was. The other shoe dropping. Her role in saving the station wasn’t simply being covered up…

  She was being exiled.

  “You will be provided with a generous parting stipend, of course, as well as transportation to the surface of Arathia. No doubt their intelligence service will want to debrief you about your experiences with this… what was her name?”

  “Sergeant Soshi Anarraham,” one of the regents’ attendants supplied.

  “Yes, that was it.” Said as if he had not asked the sergeant’s name to begin with, Xenecia noted with a stifled smirk.

  “We’re certain you shall find ample opportunities for yourself on the surface.”

  “And, really, who couldn’t use a change of scenery once in a while?”

  Her jaw tightening, Xenecia eyed the children of the Triumvirate with thinly veiled contempt. For to her that was exactly what they were: children. Fatuous, narcissistic wastrels, each and every one. She regarded them for so long from behind her vacuum-dark lenses that they began to shift uncomfortably under the glare of their own truth reflected back at them.

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” the third regent asked, hoping to hasten along her departure.

  On that point, at least, they were in complete agreement. “Spare me the effort,” Xenecia said as she turned her back on the Triumvirate for the last time. “I would not wish you to overexert yourselves.”

  * * *

  The ruling of the Triumvirate was absolute. There was no higher authority to appeal to, no one with enough personal cache to‌—‌well, perhaps one… but no. She would not reduce herself to such petty groveling.

  It took Xenecia little time to gather her effects. She preferred to travel light, after all. Her mare’s leg, a bedroll, and a small bag with a few other choice provisions would more than adequately see her to the surface of Arathia. From there she would let instinct point her upon the right path, bullshit detector be damned.

  The boarding line for the short-hop shuttle to the surface was dozens deep and still growing by the time Xenecia arrived. Flashing her writ from the Triumvirate, she was escorted to the front of the line to an accompanying chorus of moans from those already waiting. At least one of them was sure to be displaced by her unexpected arrival.

  Not her problem, she reminded herself.

  As she took her place at the head of the line a figure rose to greet her. Of all the people Xenecia would have expected to come see her off, the young woman with the lilac sash was among the last. Perhaps even more surprising was the realization that she was alone. Her three sisters were nowhere to be seen.

  “I have no time to indulge the whims of your master,” she said as Lilac Sash approached the boarding line. “Have you not heard? The Triumvirate has declared me persona non grata.”

  “I come on behalf of the Grom, though I speak for myself.”

  So, the Grom had not forsaken her, after all. Her interest piqued, she gestured for the woman to follow as she stepped off to the side of the waiting area. “Very well,” she said, crossing her arms over chest. “You may speak.”

  “The Grom is grateful for the service you have provided the station. She wishes me to express her sincerest regret that she is unable to sway the Triumvirate in your favor.”

  At times such as this Xenecia envied humans their eyebrows and the ability to raise them dramatically. She settled for a look of smirking disbelief instead, one well honed through years of enduring conversations eerily similar to the one unfolding before her. “Unable? Or unwilling?”

  Lilac Sash canted her head, the thin smile that played across her lips revealing nothing. “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. Is that all, then?”

  “The Grom wishes me to remind you that while this exile may seem as though an ending, it is also a new beginning. There is much in store for you yet, Xenecia of Shih’ra. Your destiny has always been written among the stars.”

  “Yes, well, sadly, destiny does not put food on my plate or build a shelter around me.”

  “Alas, no,” Lilac Sash allowed. Then she smiled, almost sadly, and bowed. “Farewell, Xenecia.”

  Watching the swish-swish-swish of the handmaiden’s gown trailing her toward the exit, Xenecia felt the anticlimax of the moment. That was it? That was all the Grom had for her? She wasn’t sure what she had expected, only that she had imagined it being something palpable, substantial. Something she could carry with her going forward, not some damned windy, timeworn cliche.

  “What is your name?”

  The handmaiden stopped, her body tensing visibly beneath the elegant flow of her gown. The question was a trespass, she knew, yet she had no intention of withdrawing. Even if it was only the young woman’s name, she was intent on taking something meaningful into exile with her.

  Finally, the handmaiden chanced a glance over her shoulder, her voice hushed when she spoke. “Iliana.”

  “That is a very pretty name. Thank you, Iliana.”

  Iliana dipped her head in acknowledgement before fixing her gaze forward. The last Xenecia ever saw of the handmaiden was the swishing of her gown as she rounded the corner and disappeared in a trail of grace and ephemera.

  A commotion on the far end of the deck drew Xenecia out of her reverie. There, the captain of an outward-bound freighter was berating one of his crew for some perceived slight or another. That was hardly her concern, though.

  No, the object of her interest was the freighter itself. Long and sleek of body, it was certainly easy on the eyes. The telltale configuration of its jump-ready engines was even more attractive, especially as juxtaposed with the flying scrap heap waiting to condemn her to life on the surface of Arathia.

  Overtaken by instinct‌—‌and perhaps to some extent the parting notes of her conversation with Iliana‌—‌Xenecia strode straight up to the captain and asked, “What is this vessel’s charter?”

  The captain paid her no heed initially, too busy consulting his flexpad for their position on the star chart to lift his eyes as he answered. “You, my good woman, are looking at the Pursuit of Capital, bound for Morgenthau-Hale incorporated space.”

  That augured well for her odds, she thought. “How much to secure a spot aboard?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not exactly a passenger ship… “

  Not exactly a strong no, though the man was still studiously avoiding eye contact. Xenecia produced a substantial ingot from a secret pouch within her vest, the better to negotiate her position. “Perhaps this will be sufficient to convince you otherwise?”

  That got his attention and kept it. Tipping his brow, the captain inspected the ingot as she held it aloft. “Hell, that would cover a suite on a long-haul civilian vessel. Nice one, too.”

  “Then consider it my payment.” She placed the valuable metal in his hand.

  “Done,” the captain said, pocketing the ingot with the swiftness of a man who feared his new passenger might have a sudden change of heart. “Welcome aboard, Miss… ?”

  Xenecia considered herself before answering the question. “You may call me Iliana.” With a wave to the waiting boarding line, she forfe
ited the seat the Triumvirate had held for her.

  Minutes later she was strapping herself in as the Pursuit of Capital readied for flight. “Tell me,” she asked the young crewman securing himself across from her, “is there good hunting to be had in Morgenthau-Hale territory?”

  “What, like criminals? Not so much in the corporate center, but out on the fringes where we’re headed, ho yeah, you bet. The Haleys are still expanding and they don’t care whose toes they have to step on to shore things up. Lots of strife and unrest going on in the local systems.” The crewman paused, studying her critically as if only taking note of her unique disposition for the first time. “Not so sure they’re going to like the looks of you much, though… “

  Xenecia’s lips curled into a sly, crescent smile. Story of her life, she thought. The stars would not have had it any other way.

  “I believe I shall take my chances.”

  Q&A with Logan Thomas Snyder

  Very cool world you’ve built here. What’s your favorite part of writing a short story like this, and of writing SF in general?

  Thank you! My favorite part about writing SF in general is marrying relatable characters with the scope of the genre. As for this story, it takes place within the same universe as my space opera novelThe Lazarus Particle. It was a blast to return to the Particleverse, so much so that I intend to expand it into a series of stories over the next few years.

  How does this story fit into the timeline of the Particleverse?

  This story takes place before the events of The Lazarus Particle. It’s not exactly a prequel, but it does offer a bit more insight into Xenecia and her motivations. Plus it was just fun to write! The Lazarus Particle picks up where this story leaves off, so be sure to check it out if you enjoyed “Spike in a Rail.”

  How long have you been writing, and what’s your long-term plan?

  I started writing fiction in late 2010 and took the plunge as an independent author in 2014. Since then I haven’t looked back! My long-term plan is to keep writing, expand my audience, and hopefully go full-time in the near future.

  What are your current works-in-progress?

  Right now I’m finishing up my original contribution to Ann Christy’s Between Llife and Death series, a standalone novel titled Between Kings and Carnage. After that I’ll be returning to the Particleverse with a follow-up to The Lazarus Particle titled The Nemesis Cabal. I also have some other projects floating around in my head, but those two are my primary focus for 2016 and beyond.

  Where can readers find you?

  My official website is LoganThomasSnyder.com. Readers can learn more about me there, plus join my mailing list for updates, free books, and more. I’m also on Facebook and Twitter. I love hearing from readers and fellow authors alike, so feel free to reach out and say hello!

  The First to Fall

  by Sabrina Locke

  MY SANDALS CRUNCH through the top layer of crisp reeds into the damp muck of soil and decomposing plant matter below. I try not to think about what crawls and burrows beneath my feet. Just because I’ve studied the techniques used on terraformed planets for creating walkways that also develop biomass doesn’t mean I want it squishing between my toes.

  I’d give anything for a pair of regulation-issue settler boots now. Ducking out of an official cultural reception while, at the same time, avoiding my mother’s all-seeing gaze hadn’t given me time to change. With any luck, I’ll be back before she notices my absence.

  Hovering security lights cast the rows of boarded shops and small stalls in a haze of blue light that makes everything look unreal. I imagine the marketplace has been abandoned for generations instead of merely shuttered for the night. Of course, this is impossible because the planet, Lakhish Alpha, hasn’t been settled that long. Everything here is raw and primitive and new, and although I am not allowed to have opinions, I like it.

  My great flaw (according to my mother) is that I see what I want to see rather than simply note what is. Newsflash: she’s the one who sees what she wants to see. My chances of convincing her of this fact? Absolute zero.

  A shutter slams, and I spin around.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  I’m not supposed to be planetside alone, not that I ever pay attention to that particular listing in the one hundred and eighty-seven regulations regarding the behavior of the children of Galactic Two Ambassadors. We (meaning my parents‌—‌the ambassadors‌—‌along with their staff and support troops) are leaving Lakhish Alpha in a little over forty-eight standard hours.

  Earlier today and in preparation for tonight’s affair, my mother went through my things while I was in class. She claimed she needed items of cultural significance to gift to the Lakhishan people. Considering that an embassy ship like the Stanhope has no waste and little cargo space, she must have been desperate because she gathered an entire box of things to donate for the reception. The justification for her thievery? You’re a young lady now and no longer a child. Time to put away childish toys.

  She had no right.

  When I’d returned to my quarters and discovered what she’d done, I’d protested to the ship’s steward, Kendall. He’d taken her side, of course. I’m old enough to have started noticing the way he looks at her when he thinks no one is watching.

  The things she’d taken were treasures I’d carefully selected when we’d embarked from Triton Station two days after my sixth birthday. We’d departed the Terran system for the second (ever) survey of settled worlds. For ten long standard years, each toy and book and trinket had been my only connection to the past, the only things I can truly call my own. My most precious possession is a small figure I named Paladin.

  When I discovered he was missing, I’d torn apart the bulkheads, sending dresses and shoes flying, to no avail. My red-eyed appearance at dinner before the reception extracted no more than a cool glance and a sniff of disapproval from my mother. I think my father might have noticed or even done something if he’d been there. Not only had he missed dinner, but he’d also failed to show up for the reception. Kendall claimed he was sequestered with Lakhishan officials over yet another security crisis.

  Whatever.

  It’s always something, and I rarely see my father these days.

  Surprisingly, it was Kendall who came through. He came up to me at the reception and whispered that he might have seen Paladin in the box of gifts that had already been sent down to the planet. It’s more likely that he noticed my sullen attitude and taken action before my mother noticed, as well.

  I only cared that he’d given me a chance to retrieve Paladin before it was too late.

  The small figure looks like a fanciful knight, in my opinion, which is why I’d given him his name. No one knows anything about the culture or species that had created him except that they’d been humanoid and that he was really, really old (no matter how time is measured).

  To all appearances, Paladin is a child’s toy, about thirty centimeters tall, and made from a very strong, but incredibly lightweight crystalline substance. Depending on available light, Paladin shifts from an opaque bronze to nearly transparent.

  He’d been a gift from the people of the first world we’d visited on our trip. I don’t remember the name of the planet. Our visit had been more for supplies than for diplomatic reasons.

  The first night I’d set Paladin next to my bed. When the ambient lighting in the room dimmed for sleep, he’d begun to glow. Something deep within the form had whirled, sending light like shimmering stars bouncing off the walls and ceiling. I’d remained awake for hours, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow.

  I made up stories about him: that he was a relic from some ancient culture or a statue of a forgotten god or the plaything of lost and lonely princess.

  I was six.

  My mother never liked Paladin. I overheard her arguing with my father. “Poorly crafted,” she’d said. “The proportions are not pleasing, and the coloration is rather garish. It looks like one of tho
se cheap lamps from Luna that are supposed to change colors depending upon one’s mood. Is that the sort of aesthetic you want to teach your daughter?”

  My father had argued it was a gift. “Like it or not, we have no choice but to keep it.”

  I remember my mother’s face turning hard and closed. To my father, she’d said, “In future, please be aware we haven’t the space to collect every trinket these people seem to be determined to bestow upon us. They think every old thing is priceless when they cannot possibly understand true value. They’ve never been off world, for goodness sake, which means they lack true perspective. It’s a pity, really, but there’s nothing we can do.

  She’d turned to me next. “I say this, by way of instruction for you, my dear, and not in a spirit of criticism. We must be better than those with whom we deal. They don’t have our advantages.”

  It was after that argument that she’d started the cultural exchanges with every planet and system we visited. I hated but tolerated them until she’d crossed a line by taking Paladin.

  Silence still reigns while my breath forms filmy puffs in the air before me.

  In moments like this, it’s hard to remember I love my mother. Despite her snooty attitude, I never imagined she’d dare to get rid of Paladin after my father expressly forbade her doing so. Didn’t she know what Paladin meant to me? I didn’t care about his appearance or the lack of artistry evidenced by his unknown creator.

  Muffled voices echo through the marketplace. I freeze.

  A man and a woman wearing the loose trousers, tunics and sturdy boots issued to settlers pass underneath the icy blue glow of the security lamps on the street just outside the gate to the marketplace. Another man runs after them, laughing, throwing up clumps of soil and muck as he stumbles along. They reach one of the saloons and disappear inside, leaving me alone once again.