Talisman of Earth

by A. S. Deller

  And there they were. The twins weren’t noticeably younger, but they were very clean in very new blue jumpsuits. They sat together on one of their beds, playing a traditional Pernet string-and-needles game called ‘viviri’. Sior shut the door behind him, walked over to a food dispenser on the wall, looked to the girls and said, “You know how to use this?”

  “Yes,” Ruri answered.

  “But it doesn’t work without your code,” added Jerni.

  “I am leaving my code right here, on your bedside table.”

  “Why?” Jerni asked.

  Sior said, “The Alliance wants us to kill you. They want us to make a way to kill all humans. But I cannot help them do that. In a short time, I am going to make sure they think we have failed. You will be sealed inside this room for ten days. When the door unlocks, you must activate this.” With that, he sat the distress beacon locator next to the code card.

  Ruri said with a rising tone of worry, “You’re leaving us?”

  “There is no other way. I have set the locator so that its signal will be decipherable only to League ship AIs. You should be safe. When you are rescued, you must give them this,” Sior reassured them, indicating his recording device. Jerni and Ruri scooted closer together and hugged. They were trying not to cry, and Sior knew it. He exhaled, and knelt down before them. With a tinge of grief in his own voice, he continued, “The two of you are perhaps the most important humans in the galaxy. The rest of your species will need you. You must be brave. And always remember that Uncle Sior cared for you dearly.”

  With that, Sior stood, leaving the recording device on the bed next to the twins. It faced the door. The last of Sior it caught was the tip of his tail as it swooped out after him before the heavy door clicked shut. An extra locking mechanism sounded, like a massive bolt, followed by a pressurizing hiss. The recording ended.

  Kyra Weller looked up to Rhodes and Lancer as the hologram dissipated above her tablet. She said, “Sior tricked the lab’s AI into thinking virus had been released outside of the safe room. It triggered the base’s containment and self-destruct process. But Sior had also managed to remove the plasma charges from the safe room and installed them outside. The explosions destroyed everything but the twins’ chamber.”

  Rhodes nodded as he thought it through. “So he killed himself and the other Pernet. The rest of the League never seems to talk about them having been a brave species,” he said. “It’s interesting. The Pernet probably aren’t extinct after all. That’s new. The Alliance is trying to find ways to kill us. That’s not so new.”

  “What data did Sior preserve?” Lancer asked.

  “All of it,” said Weller. “He dumped vast amounts of research, centuries of it, on Valgon medicine. On their other studies of the League races. And all of their theoretical and experimental work on humans. If we can get it all back home, the League can use this to prepare for and counter any number of threats from the Alliance.”

  Rhodes whistled. “Then it’s more than just our asses on the line. We have to get back so we can save the galaxy.”

  “Hold the melodrama,” said Lancer.

  “Melodramatic but true, Captain.”

  CHPATER TWENTY

  Every single member of the Talisman’s crew had gathered in the shuttle bay to say goodbye to Lt. Ayler. One hundred and fifty-five of them, plus the two twins. Jerni and Ruri stood on either side of Sorakith. Rhodes stood next to Captain Lancer at her dais. Even Rax had been wheeled to the service on his modified bed. Shuttles A, C, and D sat in one line to the port side of the ship, while Shuttle B was on its own on the starboard, its metal hide still scarred and scraped by LM-32f’s potently abrasive winds.

  “Lt. David Ayler was an excellent pilot, a dependable starman, a model officer,” Lancer began. “Many of you have told me how good of a friend he was, and how he was always able to come up with a good joke at just the right time.” A sniffle echoed up from the audience. Reina’s eyes hopped to her left, where Lieutenant Lille Altzen stood at attention next to Nunez and Dr. Weller. It was readily apparent to Lancer that she and Ayler had some kind of intimate relationship. As the young woman quickly wiped a tear from her cheek, Lancer went on, “He was special to each and every one of us, in different ways. David will always be remembered fondly.”

  The Captain opened a small navy blue velvet box and removed a polished silver medal. It bore the shield-and-stars of the United Powers Star Navy, inlaid with a small golden ankh. Rhodes noticed a tiny hitch in her throat as Reina spoke again, “I hereby award, posthumously, the Medal of Valiance to Lieutenant David Auriol Ayler, for his bravery in the face of daunting odds.” Lancer shot her right hand to her forehead in a smart salute, followed by everyone else in the shuttle bay.

  Within several minutes, Ayler’s body was sent floating out away from the Talisman’s lower portside air lock, a stream of wreaths, ribbons and a small handful of glittering diamond dust in his wake.

  As the crew wound down during a meal in honor of Ayler in the galley, Lancer walked into the crowd and everyone stood at attention. “At ease,” she said, nodding and smiling. She walked over to the table where Lt. Altzen sat with several of her fellow squad mates.

  Lille noticed that the Captain was looking at her, and started to stand, but Reina held up a hand. “Please, no need. Normally, we pass posthumous medals onto the closest family. David had only a step-uncle on record who was still alive at the time we left. I would like you to hold onto this, instead of it sitting in one of my drawers for who knows how long.” Altzen’s red eyes quivered for a moment, and Lancer could tell she was doing everything in her power to keep from crying. Finally, her thin, alabaster hand reached up into Lancer’s larger, tan one and carefully lifted the medal from her palm.

  “Th—thank you, Captain,” Lille Altzen said in a quavering voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two hundred and eleven billion miles away, a Valgon wormhole stabilizer, called a “lek essel” in the Valgon tongue, drifted in an unnatural partnership with a miniscule black hole. It was a supermassive toroid wider than the state of Texas, built of carbon nanotubes and oil-slick black diamondoid plating. At its center was a “donut hole” fifty miles across, large enough for a large portion of a fleet to pass through abreast, with copious vacuum to spare between ships.

  Inside, the lek essel served as a local colony for the Alliance. It was home to over 10,000 Valgons, between 50,000 and a billion Malign at any given time (depending on the functions needed), and more than 500,000 food animals, many of which were sentient to some degree or another.

  Valgons preferred to devour creatures that feared them, and none feared them more than those who knew what they were capable of.

  Lek essel were among the largest artificially constructed objects in the known universe. There were solar energy conduction arrays that spread over far greater areas in space, particular in orbit around the Insigari homeworld, but they had negligible actual mass compared to a lek. The League Torrent, and other megaships, by comparison, were far smaller. No race known to the Galactic Catalogue had yet built a fabled Dyson sphere around an entire star, nor had one manufactured a completely synthetic planet, be it a gargantuan rotating ring-world or otherwise.

  The immensity of the lek dictated that it be fabricated with mass transit systems as an integral part of its design. And so it was inside a supersonic, magnetically levitated transport pod that the Valgon Krell named Skeer found himself on his way toward a most frightful destination.

  Being summoned to the lek’s krellskek was enough to make any Valgon feel like pitching the contents of his second and third stomachs. Krell Skeer, did, in fact, know another Krell who had done so, actually managing to dissolve one of his four hearts when some of his stomach acid exited through a small ulcer in his digestive lining.

  When the pod came to a smooth halt, Skeer loped out into the hallway. His four spike-tipped legs created an eerie slide-and-click noise as he moved. The lighting was cool, to match the sun
of the Valgon homeworld, and the air would be humid and hot for a human. Even though it was temperate for a Valgon, Skeer was roasting in his shell-skin with apprehension. Dressed traditionally for a Valgon of his caste, in a thin tunic made from the tanned hides of Kenek slaves, and adorned with a belt strung full of palladium and gold medals, he still felt naked. Knowing that you were in for a serious dressing-down could do that to anyone.

  He approached the broad, brushed-platinum portal to the krellskek. The two guards who stood watch on either side of it were each of the Warrior caste, a rank down from Skeer’s own Imperial caste. Bred to be physically superior, however, they both stood nearly six inches taller than Skeer’s own 7-foot height. They held their plasma rifles tighter to their thoraxes as Skeer passed through the portal.

  The mere sight of the guns caused Skeer to begin rubbing his fingered-arms together while tucking his clawed-arms in at his sides, common signs of stress in his kind.

  The Valgon plasma rifle was a fearsome weapon, designed to create maximum pain for the victim. They worked by superheating pellets of dense metal into a highly excited plasma state of matter, and firing them with a built-in particle accelerator. If struck by a plasma bolt, a Valgon would suffer a small entry wound through his skin covering and exoskeleton, but the heat of the plasma would radiate through a much large area and effectively cook a Valgon in his shell. The guns proved equally painful when used on soft-skinned species, though often killed them faster due to producing much large burn areas on contact.

  As Skeer entered the krellskek, the large portal snapped shut behind him. It was made to emulate the sound of a massive claw clacking together. This symbolized dominance, as well as the beginnings and endings of meetings held in a krellskek.

  A double life-size holographic projection flashed on before Skeer. It was Grand Krell Ekskell, cloaked in robes made of bronze-hued Althorian skin. At least five Althorians died terrible deaths so that Ekskell need not appear nude in front of an underling that day.

  As a Krell, Skeer was in command of the entire lek essel. It was an honorable position for a Krell to have received. Lesser Krell might in in charge of a meager mining colony on some backwater planet. However, a Grand Krell was lord and warden over a planet or even an entire system. Grand Krell Ekskell was one of the most powerful of all Grand Krell. He was Master of All Leks, and therefore conclusively controlled what amounted to the largest highway system in the galaxy. Even the Greatest Krell, who ostensibly presided over the whole Alliance, had to be sure he gained and kept the favor of Grand Krell Ekskell so that all Valgon and Malign trading and war activities proceeded uninterrupted.

  It was truly unheard of for a meeting to be called in the krellskek where only the Grand Krell appeared, and no other lesser Krells were included. Skeer would have been curious as to why he was facing Ekskell alone, but he all too well knew why.

  This meeting wasn’t business. It was personal.

  Ekskell cleared his throat, and the sounds that emanated from his mouthparts were reminiscent of what a mixture of raw meat and bone might sound like being ground in a garbage disposal.

  The Grand Krell spoke, and Skeer tried is best to remain steady. “Krell Skeer of House Elkess, do you know why I have beckoned you this day?”

  Skeer began to tremble, ever so lightly. There he was, a Krell who had once commanded a battalion in a ground battle against a dozen Kenek clans, who had eaten the livers of ten of the enemy, and he trembled when addressed by Ekskell.

  “Speak!” Demanded Ekskell.

  Patience was not a Valgon virtues.

  “I...I lured Relesk of House Erkes into a mating ritual, despite her ranking in a House of Highest Caste,” Skeer mumbled.

  Virtues were not a Valgon virtue, either.

  “And of what heritage is Relesk, Lower Krell?”

  There it was, thought Skeer. Ekskell had fired the “shot across the bow”. The first insult. Calling any Krell a Lower Krell was more than a simple sign of disrespect. It was an invitation to engage in all-out hostilities. But if Skeer rose to the challenge, he would probably be served on a platter set before Ekskell within a few days. And if he relented without escalation, Ekskell might never speak to him again. That might not be so bad, if it did not also mean he would never be permitted to have more than one mate by Ekskell. Being only allowed a single mate during one’s lifetime was nearly as bad as being born to the Worker Caste. Even having just four or five mates was embarrassing.

  So, how was Skeer to reply, if at all?

  Before his pause could be considered too long, Skeer said, “Relesk of House Erkes is descended two generations from Grand Krell Ekskell, Surveyor of the lek essel Superpaths. She is your granddaughter, and I should not have presumed to make her one of my mates. If you would have it, I would be honored to die at the claws of any champion you choose to represent you in the Imperial Arena.”

  It wasn’t until after he had spoken the last word that he realized he might have said too much, too quickly, and with too little thought. Risking another second’s pause could have been the more prudent stratagem.

  Ekskell surprised Skeer, however. The Grand Krell retaliated promptly, and calmly, with, “My sanction in such an instance should have been sought even before you were a zygote in your mother’s egg sac.”

  Skeer clasped his two claws together behind his back. At any moment, the two guards might enter and escort him to the butchery for exoskeletal softening.

  “I could have you slaughtered, in the Imperial Arena or otherwise,” Ekskell continued. “I could demote you to Krell Apprentice and have you loosening the fecal belts of better Krells than you. It was my own recommendation that saw you to this post, Skeer! You had so much potential. A cycle ago I would have foreseen you even taking my place one day. But you disappoint me.”

  Here it comes, Skeer thought. He detected a small measure of regret in his superior’s voice, aside from the abundance of anger and ample disparagement.

  “The truth is, you couldn’t even execute a mediocre offense well. So I will sentence you to a mediocre penalty. Skeer, you will initiate a subspace call to Relesk in which you will tell her you are not of sufficient or necessary genetic stock to mate with her. You will then report to the elel merkek aboard this station where you will undertake a new position as Master of All Merkeks. If you are fortunate, that title will be temporary. I will assign a new Krell to oversee this lek essel. Now, you will go from this krellskek.”

  Feeling thoroughly sundered by Ekskell’s words, Skeer put each set of opposing arms together, bent halfway in a bow, and said, “The will of the Alliance is my will, Grand Krell.”

  With that, the giant hologram of Grand Krell Ekskell vanished and the krellskek’s portal snapped wide open with the crack of a monstrous claw. Skeer was left standing alone, pondering the mediocre punishment allotted him.

  Classified among the half-million “livestock” aboard the lek essel were several hundred considered valuable prisoners of war. These beings were held in a safe zone called elel merkek . “Safe” was always a relative term in Alliance space, and especially aboard the toroid. Being kept in the elel merkek only meant that one was preserved from being chosen as fodder by the lower Valgon castes. Krell and Grand Krell could, and sometimes did, choose to dine on prisoners.

  But Krell Skeer was not visiting the elel merkek with a desire to feast. He was there to talk to someone.

  Talking had not gone well for him recently. First, he had been reprimanded by Grand Krell Ekskell, and reassigned to be the Lek Master. Then, he had to confess his genetic unworthiness to Relesk, a granddaughter of Ekskell (one of several hundred, it turned out). He was dishonored, but only slightly so. Enough that he could survive the implications.

  That was the last time he let his umbral glands do the thinking for him. At least he was still alive, able to gather mates at will, and might one day be promoted to a Krell position of greater authority and respect. Events could have unfolded much less in his favor.

 
; Skeer loped through the wide portal into the merkek. The guards were three medium-sized soldier Malign, clad in dark diamondoid armor and bearing four arms each, roughly the same size and shape as Valgons. The familiarity of forms was a comforting sight. Malign were used as merkek guards for a simple reason: No Valgon could be trusted to not be tempted to eat another living thing under their care. This was sometimes bad in parent-child relationships, but it could interfere with the dealings of highly political and often greedy Krells.

  Skeer never liked Malign much. They were far too perfect, able to design themselves much more efficiently, using nanotechnology, than the Valgons could, via genetic engineering. He never understood why the Malign didn’t just transform their entire mass—-many planets’ worth—-into their microscopic machine forms and devour all Valgons, Kenek, Althorians, Insigari, Humans, and every other race in known space. It was as though the Malign were the Greatest Krell of the Universe and didn’t know it. But of course they knew it. They knew nearly everything.

  Skeer moved past row after row of cells, each one a metal block with a clear front. This was made of a specially designed nanomaterial created by the Malign. It was a carbon wall built from billions of molecular layers, each separated by an ever thinner layer of exotic matter. When current was applied, the wall’s density could be adjusted to make it harder than diamond and more durable than steel, or soft enough for a human baby to crawl through effortlessly.

  He finally stopped in front of one particular cell. It was dark, which meant the occupant must have been asleep. It was one small measure of mercy that the merkek prisoners were allowed to control their lighting. Skeer knew that the occupant was aware of him, though, as soon as he saw the golden-yellow reflections of the two oval eyes as they opened.