The variety here is absolutely crazy.
Some Composers have tentacles. Some have sheets of fur. Some have shiny, beetle-like exoskeletons. Some have one eye, some have twenty eyes. All shapes. All sizes. All busy in their work, talking or squawking or garbling hurriedly with one another.
“Wow,” Mom says, a bit pale in her face. “This is a lot to take in.”
“You get used to it,” Lydia says over her shoulder. She leads us off the main path and onto a smaller trail. The trees here press closer, looming over us. Their branches grow thicker as we walk, stretching overhead and soon blotting out the fake sun at the center of the orchestra hall. Things get quieter as we walk through the dim, alien forest. We don’t pass any more Composers.
The trail lets out into a roughly circular clearing where the trees are taller, though their tangled branches still form a thick canopy overhead. At the very center of the enclosure is a glass pillar. It stretches upward, almost touching the leafy branches overhead.
“What is it?” Tori asks quietly.
“Come see,” Lydia says, beckoning us forward. As we approach, I see the pillar has a slight glow to it. The view through the glass is of warped trees tinged by rainbow. Lydia steps forward and places a hand against the pillar, and a small display materializes on the surface of the glass. She taps quickly at a few of the characters and steps back to join us.
We watch as the glass pillar’s glow dims.
Then it blossoms with new light, every shadow in the tree-covered enclosure cast out. The lights dance in a swirl of colors, pinpoints flashing throughout the pillar and coalescing into an image: two people. I know the first one well, and though I’ve never seen the second, I know who she is. I feel a stab of pain in my chest. And as much as I try to blink away my tears, I can’t stop them from coming.
Dorian and Ionia smile gently at one another, locked in an embrace and frozen in time.
More alien characters scroll across the screen, hovering above their frozen faces. A moment later the characters shift to English, displaying a short biography for both Dorian and Ionia: date and planet of birth, rank, distinguished points of service, and dates of death.
“This is how I’ll remember them.” Lydia’s voice stretches thin, and Mom goes to her, hugging her tightly as Lydia’s skin ripples, turning to the darkest black. “My brother. My sister. Happy together.” She cries, taking grating breaths.
It’s not Lydia’s crying that gets me. It’s Mixy. Because when he approaches the memorial, there’s nothing there for him; his hands come up against the pillar and there’s only flatness to touch. Not even a memory… just… nothing. Mixy shudders and beats the ground with his fists.
I cry harder than I have in a long time.
But Tori is there. She holds me, keeping me close while I cry. When I tell her I miss him, I know she understands. And when I tell her I love her, I know she hears me.
It’s a long time before we all leave.
Eventually, we reach the far side of the orchestra hall, where the path leads to a large float-tube. Up and up we go, rising for what seems like an eternity, until at last we’re ejected into a much smaller room. Behind us, a glass wall overlooks orchestra hall’s expanse. In front of us, there is a large, ornate table. There are two people seated at the table already: one at the head of the table farthest from us, and one to that seat’s right.
The person seated at the head of the table stands, revealing himself to be a ten-foot tall giant. He wears a matte black uniform like some of the other Composer soldiers, but its fabric blends into a coat of dark-brown fur that covers his hands, neck, and face. His arms are almost as thick as his legs, and his legs are almost as thick as tree trunks. His face is broad, covered in shorter and slightly lighter fur. His eyes are grey, with wide, dilated pupils. He has two curling horns protruding from his forehead. Like a giant bull.
The man beside the bull-man is one of Lydia’s species: Ma’an W’eea. Next to the giant bull-man, he seems absolutely normal. When he sees us, his skin flourishes with a mix of green and yellow.
“Welcome, humans,” the bull-creature says in a voice so low that I feel it in my chest. “I am Admiral Rhu Mehn.”
“And I,” the translucent blue man bows, “am Special Operations Director Pax Veebra. Please, have a seat with us.”
Lydia ushers us forward to chairs at the table. Each of us takes a seat, one by one. Mom, for her part, tries not to stare too obviously at Mehn. Mixy, Mr. Patel, and Baahir move naturally, as easily as Lydia. Tori and I take the seats Lydia pushes us toward, the nearest to Mehn and across from Veebra. Then she goes to find a seat of her own, climbing into one of the raised chairs. Unfortunately, the table comes about even with her shoulders, in her miniaturized form.
“Ahem,” she says, pointedly.
“Oh!” Admiral Mehn says, alarmed. He touches a spot on the table, a display warming to life, and taps a few buttons. A moment later a Composer attendant steps into the room. “Might you find us some sort of… uh… booster seat, please?” Admiral Mehn attempts a congenial smile with teeth like tombstones while we wait. Eventually, the attendant returns with a small box.
Lydia stands up in her chair, sets the box beside her feet, then plops down onto it. With a contented sigh, she turns back to us. “Admiral Mehn, Director Veebra, I’d like to introduce you to the men and women who assisted us in our mission.”
After a round of introductions, Lydia starts in with a flat-voiced summary of all that had happened. She begins with Ionia’s death in their initial encounter with the Synthesizers when the Carnegie first arrived. She covers my discovery of Ionia’s guitar, Tori’s arrival on the ship, Mom and Mr. Patel’s search for the rebels, the Makro connection, the Key and how it affected Dex, and—eventually—Dorian’s death.
When she talks about what happened at Baahir’s base, the way Dorian died, it’s completely devoid of emotion, like she’s reading it from a book. It’s more discipline than I could have ever managed. She continues on to the Death Valley fight and the confrontation with Finale. I pay careful attention to their faces when Lydia tells them Finale is an Aniente survivor. Neither seems particularly surprised. Just grimly disappointed.
Last, Lydia summarizes how Dex cut a deal to save Earth, found a map inside the Prima Maestri vault, and disappeared with Finale. She glances sideways at me at this point. “I believe you’ve reviewed the reconstructed map,” she says to the admiral.
“We have,” Director Veebra answers instead, calling up a display screen. A rudimentary 3D model is on the screen, displaying white lights on a black backdrop.
“You believe this map to be accurate?” Director Veebra asks me.
“I do.” I nod. “Dex drew it. And I was there, inside the Prima Maestri vault when he did.”
Director Veebra looks disappointed, falling quiet.
Admiral Mehn breaks the uncomfortable silence. “We appreciate you attempting to confirm the accuracy of this purported Prima Maestri map. But unfortunately, this map contains no actionable information.”
“What does that mean?” I bristle.
“We have compared this map to the approximately eighty-eight thousand observable twin-star pairings in this galaxy, as well as portions of neighboring galaxies. The map was not an accurate reconstruction of any such pairing. Either this map points to some unknown constellation beyond known space, or—more likely—the reconstruction is inaccurate.”
“It’s not inaccurate!” I protest. “I know what I saw. Dex saw it too. He’s with Finale and the Synthesizers right now. And they’ve got a map, wherever that leads!”
“And,” Admiral Mehn continues, bristling now with annoyance at having been interrupted, “the Synthesizers will face the same issue. It is a map to nowhere.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I shrug, folding my arms.
“Tell me where to send my ships,” he suggests.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me what prize awaits us, then.”
“The Synthesizers think it’s worth it! That it’ll end the war. But I don’t know, the vault didn’t show me anything other than—”
“The stars, boy, the stars, I know.” Admiral Mehn’s nostrils flare. Some primal part of my monkey-brain tells me to run for cover. “We have nothing to go on.”
“Finale and Dex are going to find what they’re looking for,” I insist stubbornly. “They’ve got a head start. So we need to—I don’t know—start looking!”
“I know that is what you believe,” Admiral Mehn sighs. “Lydia and Mixy have already requisitioned another ship with which to pursue your elusive goal.”
I cast a glance sideways at Lydia, who meets my eyes without expression. It feels good having at least a little bit of support.
“I have denied that request.”
“May I inquire, Admiral?” Lydia interrupts.
“You may,” he says.
“Why?”
“Fleet has invested significant time, energy, and resources into this Synthesizer enterprise already. We lost six ships in the limited skirmish over Earth before they fled. The Prima Maestri vault was revealed not to contain advanced weaponry, as we feared. And even if I credited Mr. Young’s account as accurate, there is no next step forward. Let to the Controller General go chasing cosmic tides, for all I care. We are fighting a war, Captain. And like any war, we need to conserve our forces for when and where they are actually needed. We have stopped the Synthesizers from incorporating Earth. Let that be victory enough.”
“Dex stopped the Synthesizers from incorporating Earth,” I say, but when he turns his gaze upon me, I fall silent.
“You and your rebel compatriots ought to focus on your home,” he says, ignoring what I said. “Your people have sustained what will seem to them a catastrophic shock. We will be establishing embassies on Earth. But we will require ambassadors.” Admiral Mehn turns to Baahir.
Baahir nods. “My people are willing to facilitate the transition.”
“Good, then,” Admiral Mehn turns to look at Tori and me. “You are yet youths, Mr. Young, Ms. Patel. You fought bravely in defense of not only your own world, but all worlds who oppose the Synthesizer scourge. The sacrifices you made were many, and on behalf of Fleet, I offer you my sincerest gratitude.”
The admiral taps at his display and turns away as a doorway opens. Director Veebra stands, as do the rest of us. The admiral takes a few lumbering strides away but stops, turning once more to look at me. “I know you must be angry. Do not misunderstand me. Every move we make is a gamble. The lives of those who fight beneath my command are the coin I must spend. And I cannot risk a gamble.”
With that, Admiral Mehn is gone.
* * * * *
We spend the next five or six hours being questioned (I’d call it interrogated) by Composer officers in separate rooms. They run me through my version of events over and over, always phrasing questions differently, sometimes jumping on odd details. It feels like they’re trying to catch me in some sort of lie. Whether I pass or fail their test, I don’t know.
We meet back in the orchestra hall and head back the way we came. Eventually, Lydia leads us into a float tube down to the shuttle. But instead of being spat out in the small landing bay where we arrived, we’re ejected into a different landing bay. This one smaller, and houses only a single ship: a yellow submarine.
“I hope you don’t mind the temporary diversion.” Director Veebra greets us near the float-tube exit.
“Is that—” I point at the submarine.
“The Carnegie?” Director Veebra asks. “No, I’m afraid not. The Carnegie was destroyed. But Special Operations commissioned ten such craft, during their limited production. I reserved one for my use.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “What do you call it, then?”
“Does it matter?” The director’s skin flashes an amused orange.
“What do you mean?”
He steps closer, stopping directly before mini-Lydia. “Our tradition is that a captain ought to name her ship.”
Lydia’s look of confusion saves me from asking just what’s going on.
“Admiral Mehn is a traditional tactician,” Veebra explains to Lydia, noting her look of incredulity. “He does not understand the necessity of exploring every avenue of discovery to its end, fruitless though they may seem. I, on the other hand, do not dismiss such endeavors. The universe is full of surprises.”
“Are you… Is this a mission, Director?”
“Of course not, Captain! You think I would assign you a mission in direct contravention of the admiral? I’m merely recognizing that you have earned leave to recuperate from the trauma of your recent battles. And I am, as a simple courtesy, lending you my ship as a further sign of Fleet’s gratitude.”
“She can’t fly that thing,” Mixy grumbles.
“Does she know a pilot also on leave?”
“My Resonator was destroyed.”
“Do you think me without resources?” Veebra questions, this time more pointed. “You will find a new, unmapped Resonator quite to your liking, I’m certain.”
“Thank you, Director,” Lydia bows her head.
“You must not enter into this under false pretenses. Where you go and what you do is not under my authority. As the wise admiral said: We have a war to fight. But the fact remains that the Synthesizers are looking for something, and I worry our war is a mere distraction to them. Go and find answers, and at the very worst, lay my worries to rest.”
“You’re going to go after Dex, then?” I ask Lydia.
She nods quietly.
I turn to Mom, but she’s already nodding. “I know,” she says. “Trust you. I do, Caleb. I do.”
“There’s room on the ship,” Lydia offers to Mom.
“There’s nothing for me to do on that ship,” Mom sighs. “I wouldn’t be helping anyone there.”
Mr. Patel meanwhile just reaches out for Tori, kissing her forehead. “I love you, daughter of mine,” he says to her. “I know you will go. Your friends need you.”
“I love you, Dad,” Tori says, clinging tightly to him.
“I ought to come as well,” Baahir says, stepping forward. “I’ve been chasing the thread of the Synthesizers’ research into Prima Maestri artifacts for a long time. You could use my expertise.”
“Don’t you have some sort of Composer embassy to focus on?” Lydia asks.
“No rebel stands alone,” Baahir says. “There were always contingencies, in the event of my death. There are others to take my place.” He glances to Mr. Patel and Mom. “They could use your help.”
“I will do all that I can,” Mr. Patel nods.
“Me too,” Mom nods. “It’s that or head back to work at the hospital. Alien politics has a more… interesting ring to it.”
Mr. Patel turns to Veebra, his voice more serious. “May Diane and I have a moment in private with Tori and Caleb?”
“Time is precious,” Veebra answers. “But so is family.” He ushers Lydia, Mixy, and Baahir toward the far end of the shuttle bay, talking quietly to them.
“Dad?” Tori prompts, her eyebrows creased with worry. “What’s wrong? You seem—”
“You two must be cautious,” Mr. Patel interrupts, his voice quiet but still full of warning. “The Synthesizers are the greatest threat this galaxy has ever known. But this war has made the Composers… brutal. Fleet does not care about either of you, or saving Dex. They only care about winning this war.”
“I know,” I nod, thinking of Dorian. “But Lydia and Mixy are…”
“They’re Composers too,” Mom interrupts. “I think Sai is just telling you to be careful who you count on.”
“We’ll look out for each other,” Tori promises.
Mom nods, seemingly satisfied.
“I do not wish this interruption to be so long as to draw attention.” Veebra shrugs apologetically. “The shuttle will bring the others back to Earth.”
Mom and I hug. And when she pu
lls me back to arm’s length to look at me, the way she always does, it’s a look that’s something brand new. There’s pride there. I’ve seen that before. Love too, obviously. But this is… respect. Is this how going off to college feels? I’m sure helping to save the world from an alien robot doomsday gets you at least that level of respect from your parent. “Go find Dex,” she says. “Bring him back to us. Bring him home.”
“Director?” Baahir says, turning to look at Veebra. “One more thing. The Synergist that Caleb… well, you know. Where is she? Sola?”
“Scheduled for destruction,” Veebra answers casually. “We thought to attempt to extract additional information from her, but her gelcircuitry was largely purged during your battle. She is a shell—dead as far as a Synthesizer is concerned, despite certain baseline functions.”
Mixy explained as much to me in gentler terms, but hearing Veebra say it that way makes me feel sick with guilt. I wish I could go back in time and undo it. But now I know how Tori felt after fighting Mifa, why she was so reluctant to think of her as anything other than just a machine. Because I can tell this feeling, this sickening shame, is going to stick with me.
“On the off chance your people missed something, she might have information that would prove helpful in our search,” Baahir explains. “I would like to have her body loaded on the ship for my examination.”
The thought of Sola’s shell being loaded onto the ship with us is repulsive. But I keep my mouth shut.
“You believe it possible that my people missed something?” Veebra questions, the challenge obvious in his voice, accompanied by a slight amusement.
“I’m the best at what I do.” Baahir doesn’t say it as a brag. Just a simple statement of fact.
“Just that one last favor,” Lydia intercedes. “Please.”
“I did clue the Composers in on my harmonization methodology,” Baahir reminds Veebra. “Quid pro quo.”
Six Strings to Save the World Page 28