by J. F. Holmes
He sighed and turned his attention back to the rubble of his home. He poked again at a likely pile of ash, and uncovered a cylindrical shape. He reached down and plucked it out, then dusted the ash off. It was the thermos his mother had given him. Looking at it, he smiled, then turned and picked his way out of the ruins.
By the time he’d made it to the street, Father Michael had been joined by Thomas and a Karan female Quish’na remembered from somewhere, but couldn’t place. Two massive Karan Imperial Guards hovered politely nearby.
She nodded cordially at him and continued speaking to the two men.
“The convicted will be moved to an island off the southern coast. They’ll be fed, sheltered and have access to art, healthcare, and literature. It’ll be banishment, but far better than what some of our herd suggested they deserved.”
Father Michael nodded. “Thank you for sparing their lives. I know they did terrible things, but we cannot kill them to try to heal ourselves. Forgiveness can be tough, but we must try.” The female Karan nodded. The burly priest continued speaking, “With her majesty’s permission, I’d like to be able to visit them. I’m the only representative of the church left, and while they may be imprisoned, their spiritual health shouldn’t go untended.”
The Karan female nodded again. “I don’t think she will object to you ministering to the prisoners, Father Michael.”
She turned to Quish’na. “We’ve heard about your role in this, Youngling. Our Secret Police speak admiringly of your courage and willingness to help the resistance organize. Is there anything her majesty can provide to reward you?”
Quish’na shook his head, trying to think of something, and said slowly, “Well, I think I need a new house…” The Karan woman laughed, and Quish’na suddenly remembered where he knew her from. He suddenly said, “You’re Herd Leader Ki’Taran’s daughter.”
The Karan noblewoman nodded. “I am. He always spoke very highly of you, Youngling. He thought of you as family.” Quish’na nodded slowly and looked at the ground.
Misha’a continued, gently, “Is there a job you want, or anything we can do for you? Her late Majesty Queen Si’Kala was very insistent on ensuring that the Imperial citizens who had risked their lives for the safety of the Empire, and our human allies, were recognized. Her successor, Princess Asha’la, soon to be Queen Asha’la, is insistent on carrying out her wishes.”
Quish’na shook his head firmly. “No. My place is here. I think I’d like to spend some time with Father Michael, helping tend to the people here in the colony. Perhaps we can rebuild some of our neighbors’ homes and clear rubble. There’s a lot to do here, still.” He paused, then continued in a somber tone, “The church burned, too, so we have to rebuild that.” Father Michael grinned at him and gave him a thumbs up. Quish’na continued slowly, “After all, we must tend to our brethren.” The small group stood in silence.
After a moment, the elegant Karan woman nodded and spoke again, looking around the ruins of the neighborhood, “Very well. You’ll be entered onto the roles of the Defenders of the Realms, and have all the titles and honors that are afforded to the position. The empress-to-be is quite insistent on that, I’m afraid.” She paused again, looking around the ruined neighborhood once more. “There remains much to do. After the coronation ceremony, when the new empress is on the throne, we’ll send a delegation to rework the treaty, I assume. After all, this is no longer the Karan Scientific Research Colony. It’s something else now.”
Thomas, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up suddenly, “Independence.” The small group turned to look at him. He looked slightly embarrassed. “That’s what they’re calling it. Independence.”
The Karan woman looked at him for a moment, then turned and looked at the war-torn street, now coming back to life with people, Human and Karan, working together to clear rubble and return to their homes.
“Independence,” she said, as if savoring the word. “Yes. It’s perfect.” She paused again, and smiled. “Welcome to Independence.”
__________________________
Lucas Marcum is a Critical Care Nurse Practitioner, and an Army Reserve officer. He likes to write, read, wrestle his son, troll his wife by teaching his son things, play video games and hike. He hates to run, but the Army makes him do it, so he does that too. He can use chopsticks, bake amazing soft pretzels, and once ate an entire Ghost Chili Pepper burger, because honor demanded it, and paid dearly for it. He and his family live in Pennsylvania, but he wishes they lived in a castle, because it’s better in a lot of ways. Lucas is working on multiple books, which with high volume encouragement from his editor, will probably, maybe even, be out soon.
Sailing to Independence
by James Peters
__________________________
Present Day
`a
Captain Rhys Butler paced along the gangway as the Bohr Transfer Station’s dock-master scanned the contents of the Belvedere’s main cargo hold. Come on. Every container is UN sealed, my travel route is programmed and controlled by the UN computers, you knew the location of every one of these containers the entire time I was in transit, and if one had been opened or removed, it would’ve lit up on your screen like a supernova. Why does this take so long? He walked past a reflective column, trying not to notice that his three-day-old beard was about half gray. Damn, I’m looking old. If they’d pay me a fair wage, I could go for a restoration treatment.
A news-node interrupted his train of thought with a breaking announcement, automatically broadcasting as he approached. “UN Forces have dealt a strategic strike on the rebels from Independence, sending Tachyon Missile futures into decline…”
“News off,” Rhys said. Ha, Independence. That concept had died out two hundred years ago. Leave it to the UN to link a failing uprising to weapons trading on the damn stock market.
“Captain Butler,” the dock-master called. He wore an unadorned UN-approved jumpsuit, dark blue in color, the stripes on its shoulders indicating that he was a civilian with security clearance. His face was covered by a full-privacy holographic interface. He could see hundreds of bits of virtual data; anyone looking at him saw a nondescript dark shadow covering his face.
“Right here,” Rhys raised a hand into a half wave.
“Everything seems to be in order. Payment is being authorized.”
“Thank you,” Rhys said, trying not to sound impatient. He looked at the smart-ink tattooed on his right wrist. It indicated a payment coming in of thirty-thousand credits. Nice. Then it began to deduct dock fees, taxes, service charges and refueling costs. He ended up with a balance of twelve-hundred credits. Fucking UN. They know exactly what it costs to make this run, and they pay just enough for me to keep myself fed and making the next run. There won’t be any restoration for me anytime soon. Might as well check the jobs board for the next haul.
Rhys took one last look at the Belvedere before leaving the dock. She wasn’t an impressive ship, being primarily a cuboid shape to maximize her cargo capacity. She carried her standard-issue fold-drive on her belly, her cockpit and living quarters on her back. There was no need for any control surfaces that would guide her in an atmosphere; she’d been built in space, and had no landing gear, only standard docking ports. She was completely without weaponry or shields. The only reason cargo ships like this needed a captain at all was to combat the unlikely, but feasible cyberattacks and random shit in space. A run-of-the-mill ship like the Belvedere, traveling at fold speeds, could rip a typical planet apart like a bullet through an apple, if hacked. Captain Butler’s primary function was to make certain the ship stayed on the approved course from station to station, and if needed, pull the emergency stop.
She may not be pretty, but she’s my ship. Someday, my break will come, and she’ll make me my fortune, away from all this control. Rhys left the gangway, making his way into the atrium. He found the UN jobs board, only to find there was nothing right for his ship’s size and limits. I’ll get some dinner a
nd talk to some locals. They may know of private jobs. If I remember correctly, there’s a local shop not far from here that can make CHON ramen taste like real food.
He entered a narrow passage between two residential units, to find the floor was sticky with something he really didn’t want to identify. He tried to avoid the puddles of muck as he passed the downtrodden masses wandering in search of something to occupy their minds for a brief moment. The further he went, the fewer people he saw, until he was alone. As he rounded a bend, he heard a scream from above. He snapped his head up to see a man falling from an upper berth, landing face down with a sickening splat just steps away from him. The man was thin and old, but most noticeable was the singed hole in his lower back. That’s a laser wound, a powerful one. Only UNCS citizens have that firepower on a transfer station legally.
The man coughed, gagging on a mouthful of blood. His eyes darted with a sense of urgency. “Take this,” he said, handing Rhys a cube, roughly the size of a tennis ball. “Save…her.” His eyes stopped moving, his breathing stopped.
Do not get involved! Rhys told himself. Don’t be an idiot, drop this thing, whatever it is, and leave. Nothing good ever happened from getting involved in local drama. Rhys did leave, but he didn’t drop the cube. He ducked into a store offering salvaged gear, clothing, and supplies, and watched as people surrounded the body and sirens roared in the distance. He looked over an EVA suit with a helmet cracked beyond repair. The suit’s better than what I have, but that helmet is toast.
“What would you take just for the suit?” Rhys asked the shopkeeper.
“I don’t want to break up the set,” the woman said, glancing at him with a side-eyed look that showed more interest in what was going on outside than talking to Rhys.
“I’ll think about it.” Rhys pawed through some novelty shirts. As the local authorities arrived, scattered the crowd, and scooped up the body, he busied himself with buying some insta-rice and protein crackers. After everything was clear, he wandered into the street, with the cube buried deep within his pocket, to return to the Belvedere.
Once back on his ship, Rhys sealed the hatch behind himself and went to his quarters. There, he set the cube on his table and began to study it. He found it to be hard, solid, and it looked to be made of glass that had been scratched thousands of times in all directions. After adjusting the light, he realized that what he’d thought were scratches weren’t on the outside of the cube, but rather internal to it. He turned it in his hand, with two fingers on one side of it and his thumb on the other. The cube seemed to vibrate, and an image appeared on one of its faces.
What the hell? That’s a strange squiggle. The image held for a few seconds, then changed to another. Hmm. Rhys watched as symbol after symbol changed. After about a minute, the last image faded away. Rhys picked up the cube again, just like before, and the show began again. It looks like the same pattern, but what are they? Could it be…Karan?
Rhys grabbed a notebook from a drawer, touched the screen, and began to draw what he saw. As he drew the images, he gave them names in his head. Worm, opened box, demon, twin swords, fangs, splot, noodles… It took many times, and his sketches were simplified, but he copied the pattern as best he could. He checked it several times to confirm that he hadn’t missed anything. On the fourth check, the final symbol changed. That’s weird. I’m certain that was a triangle with four dots. Now it’s a four-eyed owl. The new pattern repeated again and again.
The man wanted to make certain I had this, and he told me to ‘save her’. Was he calling this cube ‘her’? I call my ship ‘her’ all the time, perhaps he had a connection to this cube? Don’t tell me he fell in love with a cube! Nah, I mean, how could they…Hmm. Well, if it’s Karan, there should be a translation available through the ultranet. He began to press the connection image on his notebook when a chill ran down his spine. Not that I’m paranoid, but I’ve heard a lot of people say the UNCS monitors all system queries. If that wound was from a UNCS citizen after this cube, whatever it is, they’d be scanning inquiries for something that might lead them to it. No, I’ll do this the old-fashioned way. That means I need to go to Daegu.
***
Rhys checked the local job boards to find there were a few cargo hauls he could take with him. The combined pay might just cover the cost of the trip, but it would be close. He accepted the jobs and had the cargo loaded aboard the Belvedere.
Once aboard his ship, Rhys walked into the cockpit and found the coordinates to the Daegu station. If anyone can figure this out, it’s Bek. He grabbed the control yoke, moving it side to side. This thing still feels loose. What the hell could the issue be? He opened a toolkit from the back wall, grabbed a meter-long spanner wrench, and tightened the collar below the yoke. That’s better, I think. Maybe it’s better. He dropped the wrench into a side pocket on his chair, initiated the automated launch systems, and retired to his quarters. Damn. I could almost taste that ramen. Looks like I’ll have to settle for insta-rice again.
***
Once on the Daegu station, Rhys had the dockhands unload his cargo, while he took the moving sidewalks and people-movers to the area he knew from his childhood and now called Shed-Town. The people here were the poorest of the poor, but Bek would always find a way to help, even in her advanced age. Rhys took several wrong turns and had to check the numbers a few times to remember where to go. I’ve been here hundreds of times, every day after school for several years. Funny how I can’t remember the exact street. I should have come to see her a long time ago. She was always like a grandma to me. Why did I wait so long?
Rhys knocked on the door he knew so well, but now it seemed smaller, dirtier, and more scratched than he remembered. He waited for what seemed like minutes, knocked again, the finally heard a muffled, “I’m coming, keep your shorts on,” from inside. Yep. Classic Bek.
The door opened a crack. “What do you want?” Bek said, her voice cracking and raspy.
“Bek, it’s Rhys. Remember me? Rhys Butler?”
“Rhys? Is that really you? I remember when you were just a kid. You never could hit the toilet.”
“Sorry about that. I was what, four years old? I’ve gotten better.”
“I’d hope so. Come on in, Rhys.” Rhys stepped inside, giving Bek a hug as he entered. She seems so frail, like a skeleton covered with skin. He walked past the woman, leaning on a cane and several inches shorter than he’d expected. “You’ve grown, Rhys. Nice looking fellow. If only I was fifty years younger.”
“I doubt I could keep up with you, Bek.”
“Sit down. Want some tea?” She pointed to a small table in the kitchen. They both sat.
“Uh, no. Thanks, though. I need your help, actually.”
“My help? What can an old woman do to help you?” she cackled.
“Remember when I was a kid, and you used to tell me about how you worked with the Karan diplomatic exchange? Did you say they taught you how to read in their language?”
“That was a long time ago. I could probably read a stop sign in Karan, but I don’t know much else.”
“Would you be willing to look at something?” Rhys began by showing her his notebook. “Do any of these symbols mean anything to you? I’m not even certain it’s Karan, for that matter.”
Bek looked at the notebook and shook her head. “These scripts are all wrong. The emphasis is in the wrong place, and the angles don’t make sense. This is gibberish.”
“Well, I tried to copy them down. Apparently I don’t know what’s important. Here, let me show you something else.” He placed the cube on the table. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”
“That’s odd.” Bek’s wrinkled brow creased even deeper as she studied it through clouded eyes. “Fetch me my glasses, will you?” She pointed to a countertop, covered with food containers and debris.
It took Rhys several seconds to scan everything to find her glasses. He handed them to her. “Here, Bek.”
“What?”
“You
r glasses.”
“Oh, yeah.” She put the glasses low on her nose, looking down at the cube. She touched two sides and the images began to display for her. “Hmm…interesting…hmm…uh-huh.”
“Is it Karan?”
“Yes,” she muttered, still looking.
“What does it mean?” Rhys asked, his voice a little more demanding than he’d intended.
“I have no idea,” Bek said.
“Oh. Sorry then,” Rhys said.
“Sorry? For what? Coming to visit an old lady? I said I have no idea what these mean, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.” She struggled to get up, shuffling through the tiny kitchen. “Let me get my pills. I can’t remember anything without my medicine.” She returned to the table with a prescription bottle, and what looked like a small doctor’s kit.
“What’s this?” Rhys said.
“Senior dementia. U-Med automatically prescribes Mnemberall to anyone with my symptoms.” She emptied her kit; it contained a candle, lighter, syringe, spoon, and a rubber tube.
“What are you thinking? Are you freebasing Mnemberall?” Rhys said as she lit the candle and emptied the capsules into the spoon.
“The pills don’t help anymore. Slow release bullshit. This is the only way I’ll be any good.”
“I don’t approve of this,” Rhys said.
“I didn’t approve of you peeing on the floor, but did I stop you? Rhys, I trust you, and if you made the effort to bring this to me, I know it’s important to you. Now let me help.” Bek tied off her arm, melted the drug in the spoon, and drew the liquid into the syringe. She stuck the needle in a vein and slowly pressed the plunger. “Ahh. There it is,” Bek smiled, her eyes opened wide, her pupils expanded to their maximum size. Her hands trembled and she breathed in short, rapid gasps.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Bek said. She picked up the cube in one hand and started scribbling on the notepad with the other. She watched the display several times, then said, “Interesting. These are numbers, and this symbol means vector. I’ve got a date, a direction, and that means velocity. I know what this is.”