by A. L. Bruno
So many unknowns. The thought came to Roberts unbidden. He forced it back and straightened himself in his seat.
The boat pitched and rolled, settling into a bow-high angle, as Hyperion’s crew prepared to tell an entire world that they were not alone in the universe.
2
Tenastan Early Warning Center
Leonathier, Tenasta
Haturina, 12th of Sardua
“And that’s confirmed!”
The fresh-faced Oroya looked up; her delicate mocha-skinned features bathed in the amber-tinted light from her round sensor screen. The nametag on her dark grey uniform read “Tamas,” and her grey eyes sparkled with excitement. “That’s another target, separate from the main ship.”
Avindair Killendia, Chief Security Officer for the palace of the Kionel and Commandant of his personal guard, leaned his two-meter frame over Tamas’ sensor station in the Tenastan Early Warning Center (TEWC) and glowered. He watched as the three-second emdar sweep painted a pair of amber watercolor droplets on its screen. His jaw clamped shut. Another pass followed, and the second, smaller droplet continued to move farther away from the larger.
“Is it hostile?” Avindair’s voice rumbled off the walls like an approaching summer storm.
Tamas stiffened and turned back to her board. “Unknown, sir.”
“Unknown?” Avindair spat. He pushed himself to his full height and scowled at the projected global map of the TEWC’s main display.
Information from over-the-horizon emdar platforms fed the clattering, computational mainframe in the facility’s basement, all to be aggregated and displayed in as close to real-time as their system allowed. Glowing green tags of aircraft, naval vessels, and other notable targets inched across the globe, each tracked by one of the twelve Oroya in the facility. The crew took their duties seriously, though most couldn’t remember the last war with Kalintel. Regardless, they remained diligent, watching for the smallest indication that their foes on the other side of the planet were once again readying for combat. Avindair couldn't help but feel a surge of pride in the team and facility he'd help create; but one, single target on the map all but quashed that emotion. There, floating along a sinewave that spanned the entire globe, was the unknown.
The main screen flashed with an update, its borders lighting red, and a new track appeared; this time moving alongside its supposed mothership.
“All of this,” Avindair said, his baritone booming throughout the cavernous space, “and we don’t know?”
Tamas looked up at him, her eyes unnaturally wide. “Sir, we just don’t have enough data.”
Avindair silenced her with a tired wave of his hand. “Calm yourself,” he grumbled. “This isn’t your doing.”
Tamas settled back in her chair and turned back to her scope, relieved.
Avindair moved away from Tamas’ console towards the reflective projection screens of the main displays. Is this an attack? He wondered. The beginning of an invasion? We need to know more.
Avindair turned to face the staff in the TEWC. Beams of dust-filled light kicked out by the four ceiling-mounted main screen projectors partially obscured his view, but he could still make out the twelve emdar operators in their four-to-a-bank, heavily vented stations. Further to the rear and raised slightly above, to provide a better view of the working location, was the Aphia overseeing the entire operation. The Aphia, Elaq—a dark skinned veteran just graying at his temples—held his left hand to the landline headset that tethered him to his station.
“Aphia,” Avindair called out, “can we get imagery on this new object?”
“On the line with the observatory now,” Elaq replied.
The room suddenly filled with the shrill call of an alarm. Elaq straightened, surprised, while every Oroya in the facility studied their screens with renewed vigor.
“Status!” Avindair demanded, striding towards the Aphia’s station.
Elaq nodded his head towards the main display. “See for yourself.”
Avindair turned and looked up at the main display. The second object’s sinewave was compressing down to paint an arc towards the surface of the planet. Its point of impact moved steadily towards the jagged western coast of Tenasta.
“Target is decelerating and is entering the atmosphere,” one Oroya called out.
“Object is still under power, tracking the possible impact zone.” This call came from Tamas.
“Is this a weapon?!” Avindair demanded.
“Unknown.” Elaq’s terseness matched the fear Avindair saw flash across his face.
The point of impact moved into Tenastan territory. Worse, Avindair saw it shift slightly, as if tracking towards the palace itself.
No time to wait, thought Avindair. He turned towards Elaq, jaw set.
“Give me interceptors,” his tone left no room for discussion. “Now!”
Avindair didn’t wait for the Aphia’s acknowledgement. Instead, he turned back towards the screen and watched as the target’s track drew ever closer. His gut churned. For the fiftieth time since the photographs of the unknown had crossed his desk, two words flashed through his mind: Why me?
The track line slowed, then came to a stop right on the Kionel’s palace.
“Confirmed,” Elaq called out. “Target is inbound to the palace. Estimate impact in two-five minutes.”
Avindair’s vision spun; his gut turning to ice. He balled his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms, and took a ragged breath inward. Don’t show fear, he repeated in his head. Don’t let them see that on you!
“Where…” His throat closed reflexively around his words. “Where are my interceptors?”
“Airborne in three,” Tamas called out. “Tactical is ready with vectors. Time to intercept is approximately one-two minutes.”
Twelve minutes, Avindair thought. Twelve minutes and we’ll know.
Avindair stiffened his resolve and looked back towards Elaq. “I need a landline now.”
“We have to be careful.” Adishta Adelisa’s contralto voice lilted through Avindair’s earpiece. It had taken entirely too long for the Aphia to get him a headset, but at least Adelisa had answered on the first tone. “We don’t want to frighten people if we don’t have to.”
“And I don’t want to ignore a threat if it’s there,” Avindair snapped.
A moment passed, then Adelisa’s voice returned, soothing as always. “You’re frightened.”
Avindair snorted. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but you can’t be.” Adelisa’s voice hardened. “The people in that room are looking to you for strength. Give it to them.”
“I know my job,” Avindair retorted, “but if this is a weapon...”
“Do you really think that beings that could travel the distances to reach us would come all this way just to drop a rock on our heads?” Adelisa’s tone was gently mocking, but firm. “If they wanted us gone, we’d be gone.”
“And this could be how that starts,” Avindair replied, his voice as quiet as he could make it.
Adelisa sighed. Avindair could almost see her close her golden eyes; her fingers steepled in front of her ample lips. When she spoke again, her bearing had shifted from confidant to Keeper of the Line. “The Kionel is clear on this: you may intercept the target, but you are not to fire on it unless it poses an immediate threat.”
Avindair sighed. “As he commands.”
“And Avindair?” Adelisa called out.
“Yes?” He was already distracted, watching as the two interceptor tags closed on the new target plunging towards the palace.
“I know you can do this.” Adelisa’s voice had softened, become more intimate. “I believe in you, like I’ve always believed in you.” Then her voice hardened. “Now do your duty.”
“Your words, my will,” Avindair replied, but Adelisa had already hung up.
Avindair had barely disconnected when Adaman Malah, his Kalinteli counterpart, had called to assure him that they were not respon
sible for the target tracking towards the Kionel’s palace. Though he didn’t trust him—too much blood spilled over too many centuries made that impossible—the fact that he had called him at all made it clear that the TEWC had been worth every plinum.
“Interceptors are closing on the target.” Elaq did his best to keep his voice calm, but Avindair detected the rising tension.
“Show it to me,” Avindair barked.
It took a few moments for the sensor operators to tie in the interceptors to the TEWC network. Finally, the second of the four screens in the command center blacked out momentarily, replaced by the grainy feed from the lead fighter. The camera shook and spun nauseatingly for a moment, then settled on the target.
The object that hurtled through the dawn lit sky was not a bomb nor a missile. Instead, what streaked past the fighters was a metallic, rounded trapezoid flanked on either side by what appeared to be winglets. Two stunted, tapered cylinders—looking so much like blower engines that Avindair almost gave a double-take—were attached to their sides, presumably offering thrust. Sunlight gleamed off a bank of what looked to be windows wrapped around the vessel’s prow. Adorning the side of the hull he glimpsed dark blue markings, as well as some kind of writing. Most shockingly, though, was the angry orange glow that covered the bottom and forward parts of the ship, its winglets, and the engines.
Death will arrive on quiet fire, and in its wake will follow disease, pestilence, and subjugation.
The ancient words came unbidden to Avindair’s mind. A chill passed through him, and, despite himself, he looked away.
It can’t be. Avindair thought. Not here, not now.
“Tenasta, Raptor Two-Three,” the speakers in the TEWC spat to life, and the lead intercept pilot’s voice filled the room. “Target in sight, but it’s accelerating past us. Request instructions.”
Avindair looked back up at the screen. If anything, the lead pilot had understated the situation. The target was a barely visible dot, its fiery orange glow fading into the distance.
“Do they have a solid track on that target?” Avindair asked. Elaq relayed the question, and the pilot answered within moments.
“We have a lock, but the EIO is having a tough time maintaining it.” The lead pilot’s voice was pure professionalism.
Avindair’s brows furrowed, and he whirled towards Elaq. “I need to speak directly with that pilot.” A frantic few seconds followed as the frequency was patched into the panel where Avindair stood, but within moments he was connected to the man pursuing the descending unknown.
“Raptor Two-Three, Tenasta,” Avindair’s tone dropped into the practiced monotone of all professional radio operators everywhere. “Are you being jammed?”
“Uh…we’re not sure up here, Tenasta,” the pilot responded, “but it’s getting worse.”
Avindair balled his right hand into a fist and bumped his knuckles into the panel. “Raptor Two-Three, standby.”
Avindair turned back to the screen. The target was well out of sight now, and the camera’s constant rattle spoke to the pilot burning his fuel at an alarming rate to close the distance. If we’re to do anything, it has to be now.
Avindair’s jaw hardened, and he forcefully keyed his microphone.
“Raptor Two-Three, Tenasta. Can you get a weapons track on the unknown?”
Avindair didn’t have to look around to see the wave of tension fill the command center. No one spoke out, of course—that would be unthinkable—but for many in the room this was as close to combat as they had ever come.
“Tenasta, Two-Three, uh... we think so.” The pilot didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Avindair nodded. “Aphia, how far out is it?”
“Target is seven minutes from the palace,” Elaq responded smartly.
Seven minutes, Avindair thought. Any closer would bring the vehicle into the sprawl of Leonathier, exposing it to hundreds of thousands of civilians below. I’m running out of time.
Disease, pestilence, and subjugation. The words returned, and Avindair’s resolve hardened.
“Raptor Two-Three...” Avindair started.
“Aphia,” Tamas blurted. “It’s on the news feeds!”
The words hit Avindair like a punch to the gut. “Standby,” he finished to the pilot, then whirled to face Elaq again. “Show me.”
The Aphia worked his magic. Moments later the first of the four screens changed to show one of the local news channels. A frantic young anchorwoman—likely accustomed to providing nothing more than weather and fluff pieces to Leonathier’s early risers—stared wide-eyed at her camera, her already pale northern skin nearly waxy with panic. A hastily assembled graphic containing the released image of the unknown hung over her right shoulder. One word was pasted below it: “Landing?”
“I repeat,” she said, her voice quavering as she read the sheet of paper in her hands. “We have reports of a vehicle of some kind descending towards the Kionel’s palace. Our sources tell us that it should be there in a matter of minutes.”
“Getting reports from other news feeds,” Elaq called out. “It’s…” he sighed, and threw his hands up, exasperated. “It’s everywhere.”
Avindair closed his eyes, and the ancient verse rattled through his mind again. Did I just kill us all? he thought, his throat closing.
“Target is decelerating rapidly.” Tamas’ voice. Avindair composed himself and opened his eyes.
Movement on the first screen caught his eye. The pretty, blonde announcer held a finger to her earpiece, then nodded vigorously to an unseen voice. “Um, we have footage of what may be the, um, the craft passing over the outskirts of Leonathier this morning.” As she spoke, the view switched to what looked to be a handheld personal recorder tracking something in the sky. The view wobbled and shook, but finally settled on a bright object streaking towards the glowing spire of the Kionel’s palace in the distance.
Avindair deflated. His window to act had come and gone before he’d even realized it.
“Tenasta, Raptor Two-Three,” the pilot’s voice hissed throughout the room, drowning out the frantic tones of the news reporter. “Target has decelerated. Standby.” The frequency hissed, then the pilot spoke again. “Yeah, it’s almost come to a complete stop.” The last word was almost an octave higher than the previous one. “Request instructions.”
Or I act now.
Avindair straightened, and he reached to key his mic. The words may be ancient, he thought, but the warnings were clear. He opened his mouth to speak, the next steps obvious.
“Commandant,” Elaq suddenly called out.
Avindair closed his eyes and his stomach fell. He knew what the next words would be.
“The Kionel would like to see you in his chambers right away.”
Avindair took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and composed himself. With that, he keyed his mic.
“Raptor Two-Three, escort the target and provide CAP coverage. Do not engage.”
Avindair didn’t wait to hear the acknowledgement. He pulled the headset from his ear, tossed it on the emdar station next to him, and strode towards the exit. Once again, the words that had haunted him since the day the Kionel had revealed them to him rose in his mind.
Death will arrive on quiet fire, and in its wake will follow disease, pestilence, and subjugation.
And it all may be my fault, Avindair thought. Then he was out of the command center and into the crisp early morning air as he made his way to see his master.
3
T.S.S. Hyperion Ship’s Boat
Phelspharia
Upper Stratosphere
Approaching the Coast of Tenasta
“Captain,” the boat’s pilot’s voice sputtered over the vessel’s intercom, “we have company. Two aircraft inbound.”
Conrad’s gaze, which had been fixed on a point of space somewhere to the left of Roberts’ head during the hull-rattling re-entry, sharpened, and his mouth dropped open. He leaned as far forward as his stomach would allow to look into th
e boat’s cockpit.
“Are they armed?” Conrad’s voice pitched up a quarter octave, and Roberts spotted new beads of sweat spring out across his forehead.
“We’re being tracked,” the pilot responded, his voice smooth and steady, “and they’re on an aggressive climb. I’d say yes.”
Conrad swung his gaze towards Roberts. “What kind of weapons are they carrying? Are they dangerous?”
If you’d paid attention during the pre-drop briefing, you’d know, Roberts thought. Still, he wasn’t surprised that the exec hadn’t retained much of Roberts’ briefing prior to boarding the ship’s boat. Conrad had been too busy dressing down members of Roberts’ sensors staff for not catching the planetary radar systems that had identified Hyperion on orbit. Berating his team for misidentifying a radar facility as a lab apparently took priority over listening to mission-critical details. Roberts didn’t say that, of course, and instead just shook his head.
“No, sir,” Roberts half-yelled over the roar of the boat’s descent. “Their aircraft carry simple explosives in the twenty-kilogram range. No threat at all.”
Conrad’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You missed the radar. How do you know what you’ve got is accurate?”
“He doesn’t.” Boothe’s voice was matter of fact, even with the additional volume necessary to speak in the cabin. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”
Conrad turned to their captain and swallowed. “That’s not a lot to go on, ma’am.”
“Neither is a pressure hull in a vacuum,” Boothe replied, smiling, “but we do it all the time.”
Roberts bit his lip to stop a laugh, and Conrad slumped back in his webbed seat, unsatisfied.
“Pilot,” Boothe called out, “time to intercept?”
“Forty seconds, ma’am,” the pilot responded. “We’ll be passing between them.”
Roberts’ heart jumped, and despite himself he pushed forward against his restraints to stare out of the boat’s clear tritan cockpit windows.