Even on the eve of the most important encounter in human history, the bureaucrats must be satisfied, thought Pettigrew as he labored to complete some lingering paperwork, the last of what he referred to as ‘administrivia.’ A hum from the buzzer on his stateroom door was a welcome interruption.
“Come in.”
Chief Engineer Uschi Mullenhoff entered and, without speaking, promptly plopped herself down in a chair.
“Make yourself at home, Commander,” he said with a smile. “Take a seat—I insist.”
He was happy to see Mullenhoff. The six months in transit had been made even longer by the absence of his closest friend aboard ship. There was also the fact that she had collapsed during her hypersleep revival routine two weeks ago and needed to spend two days in sickbay. It was good to see her up and around.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. I’m still getting fatigued way too easily, but Doc said it will pass. I just need to build up my strength. Who would have thought sleeping for six months could be so exhausting?”
“I am not looking forward to it,” said Pettigrew, who had a hypersleep coffin waiting for him on the return trip home. “Everything okay in engineering? That memory leak on the energy flow software been fixed?”
“The answer is yes and I’ve already made my report to the captain.”
He looked up from his datapad. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Chaz, you did this same thing with David Swoboda,” she said crossing her arms and stretching out her legs.
“What same thing?”
“After Swoboda became skipper, you tried to help him manage the ship,” she said, making air quotes with her fingers on the word ‘help.’ “Tempest belongs to Nyondo now—let her do her job.”
“I did no such thing with David,” he said stubbornly. “Did I?” As Mullenhoff glowered, he looked back down to his datapad. “You must have dreamed that during your six-month slumber.” Pettigrew continued putting the finishing touches on his work while Mullenhoff stretched out in the chair and closed her eyes.
“What did you dream about?”
“Hmm?”
“In hypersleep,” he said. “Did you dream?” Pettigrew hadn’t been lying earlier. As tedious as the outward voyage had been, he was apprehensive about being sealed in a hypersleep chamber for half a year on the trip home, especially after more than a dozen crewmembers had experienced medical issues during their revivals.
“I dreamed about beating you in Arimaa,” said Mullenhoff, eyes still shut.
“That was the best you could do? Ajax will be disappointed,” Pettigrew teased, invoking the name of the Chief Engineer’s boyfriend. “And… done.” He waved a hand across the datapad dropping the device into sleep mode, which is where Mullenhoff also seemed to be headed.
“Speaking of Arimaa,” she said forcing open her eyes and slowly sitting up in the chair. “I hear you have a new partner.”
Pettigrew felt a sudden rush of anxiety. “What do you mean by that?”
Mullenhoff sat silently, eyeing him with a devious look.
“Damn,” he sighed. “Tell me this isn’t all over the ship.”
“Relax—it isn’t.”
Good. The last thing he needed were crewmembers snickering behind his back as he walked through the passageways. “So, how did you find out?”
“Nyondo shared a hunch with me, and you just confirmed it. As far as I know, Kuypers hasn’t said a word to anyone. So, are you two a couple now?”
“Gods, no!” he said, being a bit more defensive than needed. “Look, it happened once—that’s all. It just… I don’t know, it just happened. It was spontaneous and neither one of us has talked about it since.” He wiped a hand over his face in frustration. “It was… disappointing really.”
“The sex?”
“No, not the…” He allowed himself a half-grin. Mullenhoff was always good at making him smile despite himself. “The disappointing part was my judgement, or lack thereof. I’m a flag officer, for Gods’ sake, not some green midshipman. No matter how attractive I find her—and make no mistake, I do—I should have never put either of us in that position.”
Mullenhoff made a dismissive grunt. “Bah! What position would that be? Being a human being with needs and desires? Sorry to break it to you, Commodore Pettigrew, but you are a man, not a demigod.” He started to speak, but she didn’t let him. “If you think you’re the first flag officer ever to sleep with a subordinate, think again. Chaz, we happen to be in the ass-end of the Black. It is so far out you can’t even see Central Command from here, let alone the judge advocate’s office or a court-martial board. What I CAN see is a bunch of people trying to preserve their sanity, although the fact that we’re all in the Space Force doesn’t argue for any of us having much sanity left.
“Personally, I’m glad you decided to be human for one night, it gives the rest of us hope. As for nothing being said between you and Kuypers, it sounds to me like it’s all over—a one and done, my friend.”
“I suppose so.” That would certainly be best, although a small, selfish part of him didn’t want it to be over. Olivia Kuypers was full of fire, both in and out of bed. She was beautiful and smart, funny and vibrant. Unfortunately, she was also a junior officer in his chain of command. The Space Force often turned a blind eye to relationships onboard ship, especially under the circumstance of extended starship service. When a flag officer was involved though, the Brass tended to be much more inflexible.
Mullenhoff stood. “Well, any romantic problems you may or may not have are about to be cut down to size when we arrive at Summit,” the commander said as she turned to leave. “Which means you have about two hours to put your personal life in order.”
* * * *
It had been four years since his first encounter with aliens—the New Earthers, humans from a different dimension. They were human, however, and most people didn’t count them as First Contact. The New Earthers were more like distant cousins than alien beings. That honor was reserved for the truly otherworldly, and from the viewscreen pictures of what transpired in the Artemis system six months ago, these beings—whoever they were—fit the bill. This would truly be First Contact, provided anyone was at home.
But first, the Daze—the translation from hyperspace into what humans called realspace. People usually experienced a period of brief disorientation, dizziness, and sometimes nausea. This time, the first thing Chaz Pettigrew could focus on as he snapped out of the Daze was the sound of someone retching and the smell of vomit.
It occasionally happened, it just didn’t usually happen this much. No less than four people on the bridge had gotten sick after the translation into realspace, and one hadn’t been able to grab his emesis bag in time. As the deck was being cleaned, XO Paruzzi was making his report.
“Translation complete. The ship is secure and all stations reporting green. Picket drones have left the nest. Vasant has also translated, and she’s about to get underway for the gas giant bearing red zero-four-five.”
“Hold on that,” interrupted Pettigrew. “Have Vasant stick close to us until we survey the system.”
Pettigrew just now noticed Captain Nyondo, who was slumped in the captain’s chair clutching her forehead. “Sunny, are you all right?”
“Yeah—yeah, I’m OK. I’ve just never felt anything like this.” Nyondo was the only person Pettigrew had ever met that suffered no ill effects from hyperspace transition—until now. “First time for everything I guess,” she said shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. “I’ll be all right. XO, give us a look at this system.”
The forward viewscreen came to life, painting a holographic depiction of what lay outside Tempest. “Epsilon Hydrae,” said Paruzzi. “Designation: Summit. Class Five quadruple star. The primary is Epsilon Hydrae A, with luminosity at sixty-seven times brighter than Artemis.”
“If I step outside, someone remind me to take my shades,” joked Olivia Kuypers from her station.
; “Stow the witty remarks, Ms. Kuypers,” snapped Nyondo, sounding remarkably like former skipper David Swoboda. Pettigrew thought he detected an extra edge to the reprimand. Maybe it was simply a new captain trying to assert herself, or maybe Kuypers’ jokes just weren’t mixing well with Nyondo’s headache. “And Mr. Paruzzi, why hasn’t Vasant started her run to the gas giant?” the captain asked.
Paruzzi wavered. “Er, ma’am, the Commodore…”
“My orders,” said Pettigrew to Nyondo. “I think you were still groggy from the Daze when that happened. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Nyondo gave him a flustered look. “Excuse me, sir. You are correct—I missed it. My apologies, Commodore.”
“Not a problem,” Pettigrew reassured her. “Captain, have Lieutenant Crawford and her people in Stellar Cartography begin working up a survey of the surrounding star systems—as detailed as possible. In case we have to jump out of this system for any reason, I want to know where we can go. Stars with gas giants are of particular interest.”
Minutes passed as the recon drones and shipboard AI labored to build a complete picture of the Summit system. Pettigrew only slowly realized how harsh the transition to realspace had been on the crew when Doc Robinson and two medics arrived on the bridge. They were circulating to make sure everyone was fit for duty. Out of the corner of his ear, the Commodore heard Ensign Hayes speaking with Kuypers.
“Mr. Hayes—what did you just say?” asked Pettigrew.
Hayes seemed puzzled. “I was just saying to the Lieutenant that the Pumpkinheads were taking their time showing themselves.”
“Pumpkinheads?”
Nyondo leaned over to Pettigrew. “It’s all over the ship—a slang term for the aliens, because of the color of their skin.”
Pettigrew tried to check his temper and failed miserably. “My skin is black, Ensign. Any slang terms for me?”
Evan Hayes looked as if he wanted to walk into an airlock and jettison himself. “Sir, it’s not the same—they’re aliens. No disrespect was meant to—”
“None was meant, but it might have been given nonetheless,” said Pettigrew in a deliberate voice. “Captain Nyondo,” he continued without breaking his scowl at Hayes. “I want it made clear to everyone aboard Tempest—and Vasant too—we will not be using the term Pumpkinheads again. Is that understood?”
“Coming through loud and clear, sir,” Nyondo said sharply for emphasis.
Pettigrew took advantage of the silence on the bridge to ram home his point. “We are here to initiate a relationship with an alien species, and what is the first thing we do? Create a pejorative term for them. Let’s stamp out the beginnings of xenophobic racism right here, right now. Each person on this bridge is—”
An alarm from Paruzzi’s station chirped loudly.
“Speaking of…” said the XO under his breath as he studied the incoming data. “We just got a ping from a moon near the fifth planet. Coming on screen.”
The viewscreen showed a barren moon orbiting a pale yellow gas giant at roughly 700,000 kilometers out. As data continued to flow in from the recon drones and the model continued to build, multiple structures showed up on the surface—and a spaceship above them. The vessel was similar to the one that had appeared in the Artemis system six months ago. They had found their hosts.
“An outpost,” said Nyondo. “Commander Paruzzi, what about that ship?”
“It’s not the same one that brought the Zevkov survivors home. This vessel is similar, maybe a little smaller. I’d say it’s probably comparable to one of our cruisers. Tactical, what is your analysis? Is that ship armed?”
Kuypers swiveled her chair to face her superiors. “Without knowing the alien technology it’s hard to be certain, but I’m seeing indications of gun ports and other weapon arrays. I’d say it’s armed to the teeth.”
Pettigrew leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, thinking. “Mr. Paruzzi, are we sure there’s nothing else in this system?”
“As sure as we can be, sir. Unless they have some sort of stealth tech…” Paruzzi replied, his voice trailing off.
“Captain Nyondo, dispatch the Vasant to do her mining. Washam knows to make a jump if his ship is in peril. Then, Captain, move us in the direction of the alien base—nice and slow.”
The Sarissan mining vessel moved away from its consort as Tempest began a measured series of maneuvers to put it on course for the alien spaceship. Roughly ten minutes into the journey, the communications officer spoke up and the bridge fell silent.
“Commodore, Captain—we have an incoming message.”
“Are Dr. Richmond and his linguistics team linked in?” asked Pettigrew.
“Aye, sir,” reported Nyondo “Mr. Segui, put the transmission on the main viewer.”
An alien face appeared on the forward viewscreen. It was similar to the image of six months ago: reddish-orange skin with raised ridges running from chin to forehead and then up and over a hairless head. This individual’s face was fuller, however—broader.
Pettigrew waited—and waited. Now what? Maybe it’s going to be just like it was in Artemis—they stare, they smile, and then they close the channel.
Finally, the alien began to speak—in Idolingua, the common language of humankind. “Greeting, my friends! We had about given up on you. On behalf of the Massang Unity, welcome!”
Pettigrew stared at the smiling orange face and then whispered to Nyondo out of the side of his mouth. “Tell our linguistic experts they can take the weekend off.”
10: Duo
The Centroplex
Esterkeep, Sarissa
Channa Maxon’s mouth pressed hard against her lover’s lips as she felt the other woman’s hand tugging at her shirt, pulling it loose from under her belt.
“You need a break,” said the other woman. “Thirty minutes on the couch will do you a world of good.” Ume Yamazaki’s hands were inside Maxon’s uniform, brushing over her back as she held her close.
Maxon reluctantly backed away. “I’m sure it would,” she said, tucking her shirt back in. “But you and I both know that thirty minutes on the couch means at least an hour, and I don’t have an hour to spare this afternoon.”
Her lover jutted out her lower lip ever so slightly in a pout. Maxon stepped close, took Yamazaki’s face between her hands and kissed it tenderly. “And more’s the pity,” she said pivoting to return to her work. The Fleet Admiral’s office was located in the heart of the Centroplex, headquarters for the Central Command of the Imperial military. Today was one of those days. It had started busy and then the pace picked up. The last thing she needed was the tempting distraction of Ume Yamazaki.
“Why are you here anyway? You are supposed to be traveling to Arethusa today,” said Maxon picking up a datapad.
“No, no—that’s tomorrow,” Yamazaki said, checking her mobile as she sat down on the couch. “I was at the Foreign Ministry for a meeting and thought I’d stop over for some quick sex. Never thought you’d turn down the offer.”
Maxon sighed. “Me neither, but I have a conference at sixteen hundred hours that I need to prepare for. If you still want the sex, Captain Barzilli’s in the next room.”
Yamazaki made a face. “Ha, ha—you are soooo funny.”
Barzilli, for all his good points as Fleet Admiral Maxon’s Chief of Staff, was not Ume Yamazaki’s type. The beautiful Deputy Minister of Culture had been Channa Maxon’s woman for over a year now, and together they were reshaping Sarissan society.
Under their guidance, the Union had become an Empire—Ten Worlds with order and purpose united in a common direction. Four planets of the former Gerrhan Commonwealth were added after the brief Commonwealth War and classified as Dominion Worlds. They paid tribute and managed their own internal affairs, but all space travel and trade on those worlds was still strictly supervised by the Sarissan Space Force.
Maxon had cleverly negotiated with ex-Commonwealth military leaders on those planets to avoid the need for invasion. Those men
and women were allowed to govern the Dominion Worlds in exchange for their loyalty—and their kickbacks. In return, the quislings were granted titles of nobility as well as vast tracks of land and resources, effectively turning them into the aristocracy of the new Imperial Order.
“I also dropped in to give you this,” said Yamazaki as she extended her hand, holding a datachip between her thumb and forefinger. “Delivered by a courier from Kition this morning.”
Maxon reached to take the chip. “You’ve looked at this?”
Yamazaki nodded. “Baron Spencer and his Kition partners are a little light with their payments this month.”
“Hmm,” groaned Maxon as she looked down at the chip.
Yamazaki’s voice showed concern. “Barzilli told me that our revenue from Gerrha is down this month as well.”
“Barzilli should talk less. I’ve sent instructions for our people in Beresford to lean on the relevant parties. The Marquis will whip these people into shape.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Maxon sneered. “If he doesn’t, he won’t be the Marquis for much longer.”
Yamazaki stood and moved to where her partner was seated, bending down and giving her a caress. “Politics is such fun. And who knew it could be so profitable?”
Maxon snapped at her. “This isn’t some game, dammit!” Maxon understood—they were both swimming in a sea of blood, and it was so deep at this point the only thing to do was paddle harder or drown. Her lover might fathom it all if she tried, but she preferred blissful ignorance instead.
Yamazaki took a step back, surprised at the outburst. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Maxon held out a conciliatory hand, quickly grasped by Yamazaki as she sat on the edge of the conference table. “What’s wrong, Channa, darling? Is it the war? The politics?”
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