by A. L. Bruno
Avindair leaned forward, his heart pounding. “What are they waiting for?” It took him a moment to realize he’d spoken the question aloud.
Far below, the media crews gathered their wits and steadied their cameras on the ship. A few of the more intrepid reporters put themselves in frame, constantly looking over their shoulder to check the now opened spaceship door.
“I believe,” the Kionel replied, nodding towards the media crews, “that they’re waiting for them.”
Avindair forgot himself and chortled. “Hikasa, how can you know…” His words trailed off.
At first all Avindair saw was a shadow in the doorway. Then, slowly, a black-clad figure stepped out, stood upright, and moved towards one of the ship’s wings. He was a fit, barrel-chested man, neither young nor mature, with golden brown hair and a posture Avindair would have complimented had it been one of his troops. Even from his perch in the Kionel’s chambers, Avindair spotted a discoloration on the left side of the man’s face. A scar? Avindair wondered.
“Those don’t look like tentacles,” the Kionel offered.
Avindair’s head swam at what he saw. “They…” he croaked. “They look like us.”
Another figure followed, this one heavy, pale skinned, and balding. He moved awkwardly to the other side of the doorway and scanned the crowd of media people nervously. Finally, a slim woman stepped gracefully out of the ship and strode slowly but confidently towards the crowd. She stopped a body’s length from the bow of the ship, both hands held up, palms flat.
“Their leader,” the Kionel said. It was not a question.
The crowd exploded into Brownian motion, and Avindair leaned his face closer to the glass. What the hell is going on down there? Avindair thought. He reached to key the microphone on his communicator.
He didn’t have to.
The communicator spit to life, and Avindair saw Jagrav holding his own transmitter towards the thin woman in front of the bow. At first, he didn’t understand why, and then, over the murmur of the crowd, he heard the words.
“I am Captain Lydia Boothe of the Terran Starship Hyperion,” the woman’s heavily accented words called out in a voice accustomed to authority. “I come to you on behalf of the Union of Star Systems.”
Avindair’s skin went cold, and he staggered back. Star...ship? A union of star systems?
He suddenly felt very small.
“Kionel,” Avindair finally managed. He tore his eyes away from the scene below and looked at the older man to his left. “We have to—”
The words died in his throat.
The Kionel stood at the window, his eyes closed. His hands, frail as they were, had fallen to his sides and were curled into fists, while tears ran down the hollows of his cheeks. A small groan escaped his lips, but beyond that he said nothing.
The radio spat, and the alien captain spoke again. “We come in peace.”
The Kionel slumped and laid his forehead against the windows. Then the man Avindair had known for most of his adult life, who had silenced implacable enemies and led his world through countless crises, made a sound that his commandant had never heard before: he sobbed.
5
Kionel’s Palace
Garden Entrance
Leonathier, Tenasta
“Greetings.” Captain Booth spoke the single Phelspharian word with confidence. Her voice, amplified by the audio system on the ship’s boat and coached by Roberts to come out as unaccented as possible, reverberated off the palace walls.
A wave of excitement passed through the media teams before the ship’s boat. Each colorfully dressed person looked to their neighbor, stunned, as they huddled on the lawn in front of their brightly painted internal combustion vehicles. Their surprise only lasted a moment, though, and they instantly sprang back to work. Some busied themselves with the shoulder-held cameras, tripod-mounted lights, and sound boards that fed the large-tubed microphones gripped by each reporter, while others worried over the intestinal spillage of cables curled across the grass. Bright red cables, thicker than the others, connected to the smoke-belching generators acting as the life’s blood for every one of these mobile studios, while square-socket splitters served power to the equipment. Though civilian through and through, Roberts couldn’t help but be impressed by their professionalism.
Movement caught Roberts’ eye, and he turned his head slightly. The lanky, red-bearded leader of the six armored troopers—the Kionel’s Elite Guard, Roberts identified instinctively—rushed towards one of the wooden cordons placed in a five-meter perimeter around the ship. He held up a black box, his thumb pressed tightly on a side-mounted button.
“Roberts…?” Conrad whispered nervously.
“It’s a comm system,” Roberts whispered in return. He kept his face as neutral as he could. “Not a weapon.”
“How can you be sure?” Conrad hissed.
Roberts didn’t get a chance to answer.
“I am Captain Lydia Boothe of the Terran Starship Hyperion,” Boothe continued. Her voice was calm but firm, intended to be both authoritative and reassuring. “I come to you on behalf of the Union of Star Systems.”
The media people staggered back, almost as one. Reporters from the different media crews shot each other stunned looks, while headphone-clad technicians offered disbelieving stares from their battered audio panels.
A memory of ancient vids showing Gant’s arrival on Terra centuries earlier flashed into Roberts’ mind. This is their Gant moment, he realized. They just learned that they’re not alone, and I got to be here to see it. His head swam, and it took all his discipline not to grin.
An olive-skinned reporter—the flowing gold and green dress, woven headband, and geometric tattoos arrayed artfully across her right cheek identified her as H’Tanzian—eased closer to the wooden barricades. She spoke so quickly that her lips were almost a blur, and her gray eyes were so wide as to be comical, but she didn’t stop moving. She just kept speaking into her microphone, looking away only to take a quick glance back at Boothe standing in front of the boat.
A flutter of excitement hit Roberts’ stomach. Chatura the Troublemaker, he identified, nearly giddy. He and his team had made her daily broadcast, a curious mix of comedy and politics, required viewing. Not only had it helped with their understanding of all three major languages and given insight into the balkanized politics of the world, it had become just plain fun to watch.
A laugh escaped his throat, and he coughed it away. I’m on another planet, he thought, and I’m star-struck. The absurdity of it all was nearly overwhelming.
The red-bearded leader of the Kionel’s guard shifted away from his spot and moved towards Chatura. He pointed quickly with two fingers, and his troops instantly spread out from their spot on the alabaster approach to the Kionel’s palace, moving with purpose towards the media crews.
Boothe spoke again, raising her voice to drive her message home. “We come in peace.”
The words echoed off the curved walls of the Kionel’s palace and rattled against the red bricks of the surrounding compound. No one made a sound. Only the calls of birds—Is that a lark? Roberts thought incredulously—the hum of the generators, and the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with acrid smoke filled the air.
Chatura eased forward, undeterred. Roberts could hear her now, but she spoke too quickly for his trained ear to comprehend.
The media teams shook off their reverie and came alive. Reporters pulled up microphones that had fallen to their sides, while camera crews adjusted their framing.
Chatura kept moving. Her cameraman, a muscular, dark-skinned man adorned in a flattened cap and tight patterned shirt, eased forward, keeping her in frame. She reached the black and white striped wooden barricade, and the pitch of her voice skyrocketed.
Other camera crews, still behind the cordon, swiveled their aim towards Chatura. Their reporters dashed to keep themselves in frame as they chronicled the olive-skinned woman’s movements.
The Kionel’s guard pushed int
o the knotted group of media crews. If they were panicked, Roberts couldn’t tell. All he saw were professional military men on a mission.
Chatura abruptly stopped by the barricade, the thin saffron material of her dress snagging on the rough-hewn surface of the wooden barrier. She looked down, surprised, and reached out to untangle it.
The Kionel’s guardsman closest to Chatura rushed to her side. He didn’t speak. Instead, he yanked the fabric away from the wood, ripping the dress, then took her microphone arm and dragged her forcefully back behind the barricade.
The media personnel exploded into a chorus of disapproval. Roberts saw their red-bearded leader put a hand to his forehead in a gesture so familiar that Roberts nearly laughed aloud. Then the media’s angry voices filled the air, and any levity he felt evaporated like steam above a kettle.
“We would like to open a dialog,” Boothe began, over the murmur of the reporters covering the scene. Her voice was steady and calm.
What are you doing? Roberts thought. Don’t speak to them now. Let them calm down!
Unaware of Roberts’ horror, Boothe continued. “We have come to this place,” she said, widening her arms to encompass the size of the Kionel’s palace. “To the seat of your—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Chatura twisted and, with a powerful stomp of her right heel onto the Guardsman’s ankle, broke free. She rushed forward, microphone to her face, and ran past the barricade, her cameraman in tow.
A loud CLACK! echoed out from the boat’s hull. The reporters behind the barricades stepped back towards their vehicles at the sound, while their camera crews shifted the frame back to the running H’Tanzian. Only Chatura kept moving, stumbling forward while she spoke.
Auto-defense! Roberts thought, shooting a horrified look at Conrad. The exec didn’t see it; he was too busy staring as Chatura stumbled towards the boat. She’s going to trigger the auto-defense!
Boothe stepped back, waving her once placidly raised arms. “No!” she shouted, her Phelspharian failing to Standard. “Don’t come closer!”
If Chatura understood the gesture she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she straightened herself, microphone held proudly, and turned back towards her cameraman.
The telltale thrum of the boat’s reactors powering the weapons ports filled Roberts’ ears. He turned to Conrad, his heart pounding. “Exec!” he snapped. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down. “Shut down the auto-defense!”
Conrad didn’t reply. He just stared wide-eyed at the scene playing out in front of him.
The Kionel’s guardsmen whom Chatura had attacked hopped backwards, favoring his left ankle. He gestured wildly towards his leader, who in turn pointed at the reporter, his eyes wide.
The guardsman nodded, then limped towards Chatura, determined.
The H’Tanzian cameraman saw the guardsman close on his reporter. With shocking swiftness, he pulled the camera from his shoulder and slammed its bulk against the side of the guardsman’s head.
“Oh, shit!” Conrad exclaimed.
Boothe rushed towards Chatura, her hands up. “Please,” she implored, still in Standard. “Step away!”
Chatura dodged around her, unaware or uncaring that she was no longer on her own camera and moved towards the ship.
There was a metal creak, then a SNAP! as the anti-personnel emitters on board the boat bared themselves to the public.
Roberts whirled. The lights of the emitters powered up, their tracking systems spinning and locking on the woman closing on the ship.
“XO!” Roberts yelled.
Conrad said nothing. He stared at Chatura, his skin waxy.
Roberts didn’t remember moving. One moment he stood, horrified at the scene before him, and the next he was running, tapping into the boat’s audio system with his wristcom, and closing the distance to the H’Tanzian.
Chatura stumbled backwards, facing the phalanx of cameras still pointed at her. She raised her microphone to her mouth.
The weapons emitters whined as they trained on their target.
“STOP!” Roberts yelled in Tenastan. His amplified voice reverberated around the courtyard.
Captain Boothe shot him a horrified look, but he ignored it. He stepped in front of her, pushing her back towards the ship’s boat, both arms held up. “Stay BACK!” he pressed.
Chatura stopped, surprised. For another moment there was quiet, only punctuated by the breathless voices of the reporters narrating into their microphones.
“Please,” Roberts said, panting. “We’ve travelled a long way—”
Roberts never finished the thought.
The reporters surged forward, microphones up, cameramen at their backs. They rushed at him, wild-eyed, questions spilling from their lips, but he couldn’t hear them. All he felt was the growing bass thrum of the reactor powering up, and all he heard was the increasing whine of the auto-defense emitters warming.
“NO!” Roberts yelled. “STAY BA—”
There was a flash, the roar of weapons fire, a wall of screams, and then… nothing.
6
Kionel’s Palace
Kionel’s Chambers
Leonathier, Tenasta
Haturina, 12th of Sardua
Columns of azure fire exploded upward from the spaceship on the Kionel’s garden lawn. For an endless moment, the Kionel’s chamber was flooded with light, the room suddenly stinking like an electrical power plant, while the air outside hissed like an angry cat. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. The air crackled as it discharged what little energy it had left, then was mercifully silent once again.
Avindair turned and rushed to the Kionel’s side. The older man was unharmed and stared impassively out the windows at the scene below. If he was in any way surprised by the spectacle that had just occurred, it did not show.
Avindair stopped less than an arm’s length from the Kionel. A lifetime of service prevented him from grabbing the man and hustling him away from the window.
“We have to get you to safety,” Avindair said.
The Kionel snapped his attention to Avindair and fixed him with an icy stare. The only sign of the weakness that had taken him moments earlier were the glassy streaks of tears in the hollows of his cheeks.
“You’d have me hide while my people face that?!” The Kionel gestured with a rigid open-palmed hand towards the scene below.
“I’d have you survive, Hikasa,” Avindair replied.
“If we’re to survive, we will do it without compromising who we are,” the Kionel shot back. He placed both hands behind his back and stared down at the garden below like an eagle scanning for a rabbit. “What of your men?”
Avindair fought back a curse; how could he have forgotten them? He lifted his communicator to his face. “Leopard, Lion,” he called out. “Status.” Years of practice made his voice sound collected.
His only answer was static.
Avindair’s stomach tumbled, and he looked back out the window towards where his people were stationed below. A part of him expected to see charred corpses, or worse, burning victims. If they’ve hurt them… he thought. You’ll do what? What can you possibly do against that? The prospect only made his stomach roll more intensely.
Far below on the Kionel’s lawn, Avindair saw a scene not terribly dissimilar to what it had been prior to the spaceship’s show of force. The media crews were still there, but they rubbed their eyes and shook their heads as if they had water in their ears. Even the H’Tanzian—Chatura the Troublemaker, of course, Avindair grumbled to himself—who had rushed past the barrier was back with the rest of the news crews. Finally, he spotted Jagrav attending to the troop who had been hit by the cameraman, while the rest of his team was busy handling their assigned media personnel. They were no less dazed than the civilians of course, but they were disciplined—and, most importantly, alive.
Avindair sighed, relieved. “They’re fine, Hikasa,” Avindair said.
“And the reporters?” The K
ionel asked.
“Safe as well,” Avindair replied.
The Kionel turned, arched an eyebrow, and allowed the hint of a smile to pull at the planes of his face. “You’re growing, Shishia,” the Kionel intoned. “I would have thought you’d be happy to be rid of them.”
Avindair shook his head, and his brow knitted tightly. “I may not like what they say,” he said, “but I won’t see them killed.”
The Kionel nodded approvingly. “Quite right, too,” he offered, then turned his gaze back to the scene below. His features hardened. “What of them?” His tone left no doubt to whom he referred.
Avindair turned his gaze back to the spaceship and its crew. The scarred man stood in front of the woman—their leader, he corrected himself—his hands spread wide in what he could only describe as a “stand back!” gesture. The leader herself was just as stunned as the civilians, opening and closing her eyes as if to clear her vision, while the larger man by the side of the ship rattled his fingertips in his ears while opening and closing his mouth. He, too, looked no less shaken by the display of fire.
“Not what you’d expect,” the Kionel offered coolly.
“They look as surprised as we were,” Avindair replied.
“Remarkable tools, incredible knowledge,” the Kionel said, turning to face Avindair. “But they’re no different than you or I.” He turned his gaze back out of the window. “We can work with that.”
“Or maybe they want us to believe that,” Avindair retorted without thought. “Maybe that entire display was just to make us sympathize with them.”
A tiny smile pulled at the Kionel’s lips. “Your paranoia is truly astonishing.”
“After today,” Avindair replied, “paranoia is a survival strategy.”
The Kionel’s smile vanished, but he said nothing.