by A. L. Bruno
“I thought you said they were no threat,” Conrad grumbled.
“They’re not,” Boothe said, the tiniest bit of exasperation entering her voice. “He’s excited.”
“Excited?” Conrad snorted.
“Wouldn’t you be? He and his team have been studying these people for eighteen months,” Boothe replied. “He’s finally getting to see them up close.”
Roberts heard Conrad’s bulk fall back petulantly against the boat’s hull, but he didn’t bother to look. Instead, he marveled at the towering cumulonimbus clouds lit a burnt orange in the local dawn. Just like Terra, he thought.
No, he corrected himself. Impossibly like Terra.
In the millennia before Gant’s Lucian war fleet arrived over Terra, people had looked to the night sky and asked the same question as every sapient species: were they alone? Gant’s arrival, his warning, and the arming of their entire world had been the answer. Not only was humanity not alone, but it turned out that the night skies were filled with unimaginable terrors. There followed the endless fight with the Motinai Empire, the byzantine madness of interspecies communication, and the struggle to bend entire worlds’ ecosystems to their will while protecting their citizens from those would do them harm. The dream of exploring the starlit sky faded to the reality of life in space: fight or perish.
Despite its history of constant internal conflict—or because of it, as some pundits argued—Terra rose to the challenge. Thrust into an interstellar community, Terrans proved to be capable leaders, both strategically and diplomatically. They forged new alliances in the fight against the Motinai and devised new ways to fight them. Retreats led to draws, draws led to victories, and finally major attacks deep into the once untouchable Motinai territory. That these triumphs had cost millions of lives was irrelevant. Life in space was hard. To expect anything else was foolish.
Then the Motinai Empire sued for peace.
The interstellar community was stunned. That a tiny backwater world had accomplished in a scant three centuries what they had strived to achieve for nearly a millennium was unthinkable. Peace, a long-forgotten dream, was at hand. All thanks to a people from a lonely yellow star in the Sagittarius arm of the galaxy they called the Milky Way.
Freed from the Motinai threat, the Terran Senate repurposed their largest warships, sending them far beyond Sol’s heliosphere to look for new shores. Over the years that followed, hundreds of planets were scouted, dozens more surveyed, and eventually, a sparse few were colonized. Finding and building these new homes was dangerous, back-breaking work, but that never deterred the Terran Star Force. As always, the choice was survival or death. That was just the reality of life in the black.
Then everything changed.
The Terran Star Ship Hyperion had been six months into its deep space survey mission when it intercepted signals from a civilization never before catalogued by any member of the Union of Star Systems. At first, Roberts and his SIGINT crew had been ecstatic. Finding new, advanced life was a cornerstone of their mission. That they’d achieved it so quickly was unimaginable.
Then the signal had been decoded. Its flickering, space-faded video displayed for all to see. After adjusting to the tough reptilian skin of the Lucians, the slender blue-gray forms of the Xaboch, and the skittering horror that were the Motinai, Hyperion’s crew were curious—if not the tiniest bit apprehensive—by what visage would greet them in their holotanks.
The image stabilized and the SIGINT crew gasped almost as one. These were not features born of some deeply divergent evolution. No, the faces that stared back at them were human.
At first the crew had assumed that the signal was a hoax. When that was ruled out, they conjectured that it was a hypercom anomaly. That hypothesis failed every test applied to it, as did a half dozen others. By the time Roberts and his team had found themselves imagining mutinous crews hiding in the black like some latter-day HMS Bounty, they were forced to accept the truth: the signals were real and were not of Terran origin.
Less than a month after a stunned Terran Senate had ordered them to investigate further, Hyperion found itself in a system dominated by a G2V main-sequence star, around which spun a half-dozen planets. There, turning happily along in what humanity had long ago called the Goldilocks Zone, was an oblate spheroid Roberts’ SIGINT team had determined was called Phelspharia.
As with the signal, the planet itself was impossible.
Located over six hundred light years from Sol, the planet was, in every way that mattered, Terra’s sister. From its diameter (some 14,000 kilometers) to its atmosphere (77 percent nitrogen, 22 percent oxygen, with a few trace gases thrown in to flavor the soup), and even its axial tilt (21 degrees), Phelspharia was an almost uncanny copy of humanity’s home. Its sole circling satellite, nearly the same mass as Luna, only served to befuddle Hyperion’s crew even further.
Phelspharia shouldn’t—couldn’t—exist.
In over four centuries of space flight, Terran starfarers had learned that the best they could hope to find were worlds that could, with considerable effort and enormous determination, be slowly altered to allow human populations to survive. Habitat modules gave way to domes, which grew into spiderwebs of reinforced cubes squatting in muddy fields. Eventually, the first green hues would appear, and the world would become something worth fighting for. It was dangerous, punishing work, but it was the only way it could be done.
Yet there was Phelspharia. A world so perfectly fit for human habitation that explorers could literally land and start building a settlement on day one.
Then there was the population.
There, isolated over six hundred light years from the birthplace of homo sapiens sapiens, was a population of nearly three billion human beings.
Roberts and his team had studied the planet’s video broadcasts like Ameilhon pouring over the Rosetta Stone. They watched the Phelspharian politicians squabble, their religious leaders proselytize, and stared agog at snippets of their entertainment. These were human beings, through and through, and yet somehow they lived on a planet that should not exist.
After weeks of unanswered updates to fleet headquarters, Hyperion finally received orders. Buried behind the flowery prose and excited videos from political leaders were two clear directives: “Learn all that you can.” Followed by, “Expect further instructions.”
That’s what they had done. For eighteen long months Hyperion had circled the planet, studying a people that should not exist, waiting for the order to finally introduce themselves to the world below.
“Target intercept in three... two…” the pilot’s voice called out.
Roberts leaned forward so hard that the straps bit into his shoulders.
“... one.”
It was over before it began. Roberts caught a glimpse of two slender, darkened bodies backlit by the rising sun, and then they were gone.
“We’re clear,” the pilot said.
“See?” Boothe offered. “No threat.”
Conrad just snorted. This time Roberts didn’t bother to hide his smile. He just focused on the view out the windows.
The ship’s boat plunged towards Phelspharia’s surface, the glow of compression heating fading as the ship dumped velocity. There, in the darkness below, Roberts caught his first glance of the Tenastan coastline. Haphazard clumps of lights bunched around the archipelagos and cliffs of the planet’s largest continent, while the steady sweep of a lighthouse spilled a thin brush of illumination on the nearby sea. His mind flashed to the orbital imagery he and his staff had poured over for so many months, and he instinctively looked for the ribbons of asphalt the locals used to travel in their internal combustion vehicles. It took a moment, but there, near the largest grouping of lights (Celenti, Roberts identified instinctively) was a hair-thin, gleaming amber strip leading from the coast and moving inland.
Then, for the first time in over twenty-four frantic hours, the reality hit him; he was about to land on the planet.
A chuckle escaped
his lips. He tried to bite it back but failed. Another followed, and within moments Roberts just laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Conrad’s voice held no humor whatsoever.
Roberts tore his eyes away from the approaching planet to stare at the exec. Conrad fixed him with a hard gaze, utterly unamused.
“We…” Roberts started. He took a deep breath and composed himself. “I just can’t believe this is actually happening.”
“Let’s go over that again,” Boothe said. Roberts turned and saw his captain leaning forward, her brows furrowed. He took the hint and bit back as much mirth as he could.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, doing his best to ignore the increased motion of the ship’s boat as it sank into the lower atmosphere. “Once we touch down it’s imperative that we stay by the boat and wait for the Kionel’s representatives to approach us. Doing anything else could be considered an act of aggression.”
“I thought you said they weren’t a threat,” Conrad challenged.
“Technologically, no,” Roberts replied. “But their bullets will kill us just as dead as one of our sidearms. Best to respect their rituals.”
Conrad crossed his arm, a smug expression spreading across his face. “I told you we should have come down in body armor.”
“Not your call, Exec,” Boothe intervened. She turned her attention back to Roberts. “And we can’t use our translators?”
“No, ma’am,” Roberts replied. “Tenastans won’t accept translators, even human ones.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Conrad spat.
“It’s their way,” Roberts replied. “They think too much…” he struggled to find the word, “nuance is lost when someone translates for you. That’s why they insist on negotiating only with people who speak their language. They believe it keeps all parties honest.”
“Or it’s a way to keep their opponents off-balance,” Conrad retorted.
Boothe just nodded, taking in both viewpoints. “Any updates to their tech level that we should be aware of?” It was the third time she’d asked the question in the past day, but Roberts answered as if it were the first.
“No, ma’am,” Roberts replied. “They’re barely a type zero civilization. Technology roughly analogous to the North American continent in the late twentieth century.”
“Are you sure?” Conrad challenged. “There are three governments down there. Maybe one’s a little further along than we think.”
Roberts shook his head. “Doubtful, sir. The various governments are trying to outcompete each other, but they’re more or less in a state of parity.”
Conrad grunted against a sudden lurch of the descending boat. Then his brow furrowed, and he shot Roberts a sideways glance.
“Why the Kionel?” Conrad asked. “Why not the heads of the various governments?”
“Because he’s their “Great Mediator”,” Roberts replied. “He keeps their nations talking and not fighting. By going to him we’re showing them that we respect their ways.”
“He is now,” Conrad replied. He leaned forward like a leashed dog lunging at a nearby fox. “But he was a warrior for a lot of their history. How do we know he won’t go back to his old ways?”
“Those Kionels lived centuries ago,” Roberts replied, exasperated. He’d gone over this with Conrad dozens of times. “The Kionel’s role now is entirely diplomatic.”
“You’re fighting a losing battle, Zaid,” Boothe said, a touch of mirth in her voice. “Better to admit defeat and enjoy the ride.”
Much to Roberts’ surprise, Conrad chuckled. “Never,” he offered as he sat back, a smile on his face. “Gotta keep the kid on his toes.”
The boat’s speakers spit to life again. “We have the palace in sight,” the pilot called out. “Coming up on final decel.”
Roberts snapped his head to the right to look out of the cockpit windows. At first all he saw were wisps of low-lying cumulus clouds; then the ship’s boat was through and the palace burst into view.
Roberts had reviewed imagery of the palace for months, but none of it, not the stereoscopic orbital imagery, nor the extrapolated walk around, or even the clearer stealth drone data prepared him for the sight of the Kionel’s complex with his own two eyes. Situated on the highest hill in the city of Leonathier—itself a retro-wonder of glass towers, squat brick buildings, and overlapping ribbons of roadways—the palace’s main tower gleamed in the rising sun, its cylindrical bulk thrusting upwards like a brass bullet. Almost two hundred meters at its peak, the tower tapered down its height to a base almost half again as wide, with banks of windows—some lit, others not—surrounding its circumference. Its flattened top held an array of satellite dishes, communications towers, and anti-collision lights, while its base was obscured by the more traditional multistory buildings that made up the rest of the facility. And there, just visible at the outskirts of the palace grounds, the battered walls stood mute testament to its violent past.
The ship’s boat shuddered, and the smell of ozone filled the cabin. Roberts knew what the pilot was going to say before he spoke.
“Antigravs engaged,” the pilot called back. “Terminal decel to touchdown.”
The ship’s boat slowed rapidly as its Vealé drives kicked in. A security tower rushed into view, then eased to a crawl as the antigravs slowed their descent. Inside the blue-lit glass room at the apex of the watchtower, Roberts caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed, gray-uniformed guard gaping as they moved past. The boat shuddered again as it slowed to a walking pace. Within moments they were hovering over the opulent garden lawn that faced the tower entrance of the Kionel’s palace.
Roberts’ heart beat so violently against his chest he was afraid his sternum would break. A flash of adrenaline lit up his limbs, and his vision swayed. This is it, he thought. This is really it.
“Ready to land, ma’am,” the ship’s pilot called back. He didn’t dare put the ship down without confirmation. First Contact protocol dictated that the senior officer made the final on-scene decision to land. It was a rule with bloody history, and no officer worth their bars would dare violate it.
Roberts' seat flexed, and he heard Boothe’s buckles unclamp. Then Roberts felt her hand fall on his left shoulder.
“Commander, if I may?” she asked.
Roberts blanched, then sat back in his seat. Captain Boothe eased past him and looked out the window.
Roberts tried not to worry. It didn’t work. If the captain saw something—anything, in fact—that spoke to an unacceptable risk, she would order a boost back to Hyperion. He wanted to unbuckle, to stand up and tell her that they shouldn’t pass up this chance, but he knew better than to do so. The decision was hers, and hers alone.
Finally, after a handful of moments that felt like hours, Boothe nodded. “Take us down.” Roberts thought he caught the slightest hint of excitement in her voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He was too busy listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the pilot responded. “Taking us down.”
The antigravs whined louder, there was a slight jostle, and the boat came to a gentle stop.
“Touchdown,” the pilot reported.
No one said a word. The only sounds were the whine of the antigravs spinning down, the groan of the boat’s hull as it came to rest in Phelspharia’s gravity well, and the rattle of the internal piping as they flexed in the crisp early morning. The recirculation system kicked in to keep the internal temps comfortable, and the sweet stench of coolant filled the air. Then, finally, the captain broke the silence.
“Keep her warm and be ready for immediate departure,” Boothe said, her voice hard. She turned away from the cockpit, and any excitement she may have felt had vanished behind an impassive mask.
“Captain,” Conrad called out, unbuckling his harness as he spoke. “Recommend we engage local auto-defense, just in case things go south.”
Auto-defense?! Roberts thought. His incredulity must have crossed his face because Conrad shot him
a wry grin. “You have a problem with that, Mr. Roberts?”
“Yes!” Roberts snapped so loudly that even Boothe fixed him with a hard stare. He busied himself with unbuckling his five-point harness and tried to keep his emotions in check.
“Ma’am,” Roberts said, his hands working at the clasps, “we’re centuries ahead of these people. If they make the wrong move and the auto-defense reacts, it’ll be like bringing a cannon to a club fight.”
“Then they’ll know not to do it again,” Conrad replied, a lupine grin on his face.
“And we can kiss any kind of dialog with the people of this world goodbye, too,” Roberts snapped.
Conrad shrugged, still smiling. “It’s the captain’s call.”
Roberts turned towards Boothe. “Captain, I strongly recommend against auto-defense. Protocol dictates we stay by the boat until we make contact anyway. If things look like they’re going south, we can board and depart before they can even touch us.”
“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions there, Commander,” Conrad said.
“Agreed,” Boothe said, nodding. “Sorry, Mr. Roberts, but I have you and the exec to worry about.” She turned back towards the helmeted pilot. “Engage auto-defense.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the pilot’s hands flew across his interface. A low throb of a drain from the boat’s reactor vibrated throughout the hull, and the clack! of defense bays unlocking rang through the cabin. The boat’s AI instantly scanned the surrounding area, and any targets it marked as suspect were locked and tracked. Any that made any overtly hostile actions, such as rushing the vessel or aiming anything identified as a weapon in their direction, would be neutralized with maximum force.
Roberts grimaced despite himself, and Conrad chortled. “Never seen someone so angry to be protected,” the exec said gleefully.
And I’ve never seen someone so ready to kill people he hasn’t met yet, Roberts thought, but instead he said, “It’s the captain’s call.”
“Indeed, it is, Mr. Roberts,” Boothe said. She stood as straight as she could in the cramped boat and brushed down her dress coat. “Are we ready?”