by A. L. Bruno
“Lion, Leopard,” Jagrav’s voice punched through the quiet hiss of the communicator’s static.
Avindair didn’t bother to hide the relief he felt when he heard Jagrav’s voice. He snapped the communicator to his face and barked out a quick, “Lion, go.”
“I, um…” Jagrav’s normally jovial tone was tight and uncomfortable. “Sada, did you see that?”
“We did,” Avindair replied, ignoring his second’s casual oath. “What’s your status?”
“No worse for wear, really,” Jagrav said. “Flash blindness, ears are ringing, and had the pava scared out of us, but other than that we’re still ready to piss ourselves.”
If he’s willing to joke, he’s all right, Avindair thought, relieved. “Keep Chatura behind the barrier,” Avindair growled. “We don’t want to see what else that thing can do.”
“Copy,” Jagrav replied. “If that thing starts shooting again?”
The Kionel’s head shifted the tiniest degree, eyes fixed on Avindair.
“Get those reporters out of there,” Avindair replied. “Then fall back to the palace. We’ll figure out our next steps there.”
“Understood,” Jagrav replied. He sounded completely unconvinced. His voice tensed. “Oh, sada, something’s happening.”
Avindair saw it, too. The leader stepped away from the scarred man, her shoulders tense, while the former stepped closer to the barricade. The frontline reporters shifted back, nervous, while their support teams kept glancing towards the stranger so close to them.
“Is he armed?” Avindair growled.
“Can I tell?” Jagrav retorted.
Avindair tensed. Could the scarred man be nothing more than a sacrifice? Was he getting closer to the reporters in order to detonate some kind of weapon?
Avindair’s jaw shifted. We can’t take that chance, he thought. He placed his thumb on the communicator’s transmit button.
The scarred man raised his hands and started speaking. Though his words were amplified, they were still too quiet to penetrate the thick glass surrounding the Kionel’s chamber.
Avindair jammed his thumb onto the transmit button. “I need to hear what he’s saying now!”
A pregnant moment passed, then Avindair’s communicator spat back to life.
“...Force officer Jason Roberts.” The scarred man’s voice was deep, his diction clear. “We’ve been studying your world for some time.”
“Tenastan,” the Kionel said. “He speaks it well.”
“The display you just saw,” the scarred man, Jason Roberts as he had just identified himself, continued, “was our boat’s defense system warning you away.”
The media personnel shot each other nervous looks. For once, Avindair agreed with their concern.
“If that frightened you, on behalf of Captain Boothe, First Officer Conrad, and all of my shipmates aboard the Terran Starship Hyperion, allow me to apologize.”
The media people muttered to each other so loudly that Avindair could hear them above the static of his communicator.
Roberts took a half step forward, and the reporters fell quiet.
“We know this is frightening,” Roberts said. “And we know you have questions.”
Roberts lowered his right hand and gestured to Chatura standing statue-like by the Kionel’s guard she’d injured only minutes before.
“This H’Tanzian…” Roberts started. Then he tilted his head, studying her. “Hariska Chatura, am I right?”
Chatura staggered back a step, her left hand raising to her heart. Don’t give her more attention, Avindair grumbled to himself. She doesn’t need it!
Roberts just raised his hands wider and spoke with more vigor.
“She didn’t know about our ship, didn’t know who we are, but she wouldn’t let her fear stop her.” He raised his hands in a familiar show of surrender. “If you hear nothing else I say today,” Roberts continued, “make it this: do not be afraid.”
Says the man with weapons that can burn the sky, Avindair thought.
Even from his perch high above the lawn, Avindair saw Chatura’s posture change from frightened to determined. She moved forward, straightening her skirts and headdress, her chin raised high.
Roberts dropped his hands to his side. “Now,” he said, looking directly at Chatura. “What would you like to know?”
For a brief moment no one—not even Chatura—said a word. Then, almost in unison, the reporters exploded towards Roberts, microphones out, cameramen jockeying for the best position. The audio devolved into a white noise of yelled questions, fervent recaps, and raised voices before Jagrav mercifully cut his end of the transmission.
He knew just what to say, Avindair thought. How can we—why would we—trust that?
“Him,” the Kionel said.
“What about him?” Avindair asked, shooting a confused glance to his leader.
The Kionel nodded down towards the crowd below. “We’ll work with him.”
“No…” the word slipped past Avindair’s lips before he realized that he’d spoken it.
The Kionel either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He strode away from the window towards his desk, hands still behind his back, his mind already elsewhere. “Make the necessary arrangements.” His tone made it clear that this was an order.
“Hikas— Kionel,” Avindair said, following the older man to his desk. “We don’t know anything about that man.”
“He’s not their captain,” the Kionel offered as he sat. He lifted a paper that had been waiting for his attention and scanned the text carefully, the morning sun painting the room in shades of gold.
“True,” Avindair acknowledged, holding on to his civility with both hands. “But aside from that?”
The Kionel looked up at Avindair, never moving his head but locking eyes with his commandant over the top of the brief in his hands. For the first time in more years than he cared to admit, Avindair saw the old strength he’d admired in the Kionel for so long.
“He speaks our language,” the Kionel said. “He is respectful, and he knows how to work with the media.” He dropped his gaze back to his papers. “We could do far worse.”
“Respectfully, we don’t know that—” Avindair began.
“Enough!” The Kionel roared, rocketing to his feet, his voice echoing off the windows and walls of his chamber. Avindair took a respectful step back.
The Kionel faltered and leaned on his right fist while he rubbed his left hand through what remained of his hair. When he finally gathered enough strength to stand again, he fixed Avindair with a furious gaze.
“You said you wanted me to survive?” the Kionel asked, his voice hard.
“Of course, Hikasa,” Avindair replied, chagrined.
“Good,” the Kionel replied, settling gently back into his chair. “Then you’ll do as you’re told.”
Avindair shook where he stood. We’re dealing with too many unknowns! he thought. We have to do this right. But all he said was, “Yes, Kionel.”
The Kionel nodded, then straightened in his chair. “Good.” The Kionel’s voice cracked, but he held his head high. “Now this is what must be done.”
7
Kionel’s Palace
Garden Entrance
Leonathier, Tenasta
A tidal wave of questions deluged Roberts as the reporters rushed him, cameras in hand. In a pincer move that would have impressed the Terran Marines, the news teams surrounded him; foam-covered microphones and immaculate lenses ready to record his every move.
A light flashed, and panic shot through him. Another flash followed, then another. Camera lights, Roberts realized, trying to tap down the fear pulling at his chest. They’re just taking pictures.
Roberts took a deep breath, working hard to keep his smile on his face. Another light flashed, while the cacophony of questions bombarded him. Another light flashed, then another...
...and he was slammed into the side of his fighter’s cockpit as the fireballs that had been his squadro
n mates blossomed around him. Holodisplays bled red as his systems failed, and then his stomach was in his throat and he was tumbling out of control and something smashed into his face…
“Where are you from?”
Roberts opened his eyes, unaware that he’d closed them. He looked at the surrounding wall of reporters, his hands shaking, his heart pounding.
That hasn’t happened for a long time, he thought, chilled. He swallowed, then moved his shaking hands behind his back in a modified position of parade rest. The only thing worse than frightening them is to show our fear, he thought. He cleared his throat, then spoke as loudly as he could.
“Please!” he yelled. “One question at a time!”
“Where are you from?” Chatura the Troublemaker asked.
“Terra,” he replied. He opened his mouth to continue.
“Where is that?” the curvaceous blonde reporter to his right queried aggressively, her microphone jammed towards him. Adorned in a slick, black business suit that wouldn’t have been completely out of place in New Chicago, she balanced on heels so high as to be comical. Months of staring at her visage on grainy broadcasts made her instantly recognizable. Siva Dayati, he identified. Kalinteli News Service.
The thin, pale-skinned form of Tarkena Akand, chief spokesperson of the Tenastan News Network, leaned forward in a high-necked collarless green shirt and sharply pressed slacks; his microphone jutting forward like a gladius. “Are there other races?” He almost looks excited, Roberts thought. That’s a first.
Roberts nodded. “Yes—” he began.
“What kind of economic system do you use?” Dayati asked, her eyes narrowing as she pressed forward.
“How do you travel between stars?” Tarkena pressed. “Do you travel faster than light?”
Chatura shoved her petite frame forward a few centimeters. “Are you the Aditali?”
Aditali? Roberts thought. What the hell is that?
A wave of laughter erupted from the Tenastan and Kalinteli news crews, spurring Chatura to shoot icy stares at the other teams.
Now’s your chance, Roberts thought. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Everyone!” Captain Boothe yelled from behind him. She eased next to Roberts, holding one hand up, her gaze steady, her face impassive. “We’ll be happy to speak with you,” she continued. Roberts tried and failed not to wince at her accent. I wish she would have let me work with her more, he thought.
“What?” Dayati asked, confused.
“We don’t understand you,” Tarkena offered.
Boothe opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Finally, she turned her face the tiniest degree towards Roberts, careful to keep her impassive expression in place.
“What are they saying?” Boothe whispered to Roberts.
“Ma’am, please,” Roberts replied, smiling as if nothing was wrong. “I’ve got this.”
Irritation flashed briefly across Boothe’s face. “Don’t screw this up, Commander,” she offered, her voice hard. She turned, raising her wristcom to her face, then backed away.
Great, Roberts thought. I’ve pissed off my captain during a first contact. So much for my OER.
Roberts hadn’t intended to usurp Boothe’s role in the process. He’d acted instinctively after the ship’s boat had sent up a warning shot—thanks, he noted, to Conrad’s last-minute action—closing with the reporters to reassure them that they came in peace. He would have happily turned the questions to her, but, frankly, she didn’t have the language skills for it. Right tool for the right job, his father’s voice echoed from the past. He fought back the urge to chuckle mirthlessly. And I’m the tool.
“What did she say?” Dayati pressed.
“She said she’s happy to answer your questions—” Roberts began.
The boat’s gunports whined, then snapped shut with a sharp metallic clang.
In an instant the press of reporters fell back, their eyes wide. Even Chatura staggered away, turning her face from the boat and covering her ears.
Roberts whirled, shocked. “What the hell!?” he yelled, despite himself.
Boothe shot him a look that would have frozen the Mediterranean Sea. “I’m closing the gunports,” she answered, her voice hard.
“You’re scaring them!” Roberts growled.
Boothe locked eyes with him, furious at the insubordination. Then she saw the crowd staggering back, and her expression softened.
Roberts didn’t wait for further acknowledgement. He whirled back towards the reporters, raising his hands once again. “Please!” he yelled, again in Tenastan. “We’re just closing the boat’s ports,” he yelled. “You’re in no danger!”
The crowd wasn’t interested in his words. The reporters rushed to their vehicles, somehow continuing their shocked narration as they ran. Even the Kionel’s guard fell back, retreating to the alabaster slabs of the palace’s approach.
Roberts sagged. So much for coming in peace, he thought, angry.
Suddenly the Kionel’s guards assembling on the palace approach parted, and a new figure strode directly towards Roberts. The man was impossible to miss: powerfully built, he towered almost a head higher than the others. A shock of bright red-gold hair was pulled back tightly against his scalp, while his thick, but well-trimmed red beard framed a chiseled jaw. Angular features seemingly hewn out of stone were complimented by a jutting aquiline nose and dark eyebrows, all framing a pair of downturned piercing golden eyes. He was clad in the same blue-gray body armor as the rest of the guard, with two exceptions: red piping around his collar and wrists and an embossed gold lion above his left breast. He moved with the confidence of a practiced leader, while his men fell in behind him.
The commandant, Roberts realized with a shock. The leader of the Kionel’s Elite Guard. He’d only be here if—
The commandant stopped in front of Roberts and stared down at him, unimpressed. When he spoke, it sounded like two great stones scraping together.
“You are the one called Roberts?” the commandant asked. His Tenastan was crisp, his diction precise.
Roberts fought the urge to gulp before he answered. “I am,” he replied as neutrally as he could manage.
The commandant’s eyes narrowed, and Roberts saw disapproval in his eyes.
“I am Avindair Killendia, Chief Commandant of the Kionel’s Personal Guard, Head of Security for the Kionel’s Palace, and Protector of the Line. I come at the behest of the Kionel.” Avindair emphasized the last word, if not for Roberts, then for the retreating crowd.
The Kionel. Roberts’ head swam for a split second, but he pulled himself together long enough to offer a weak, “We’re honored.”
Avindair broke eye contact and swept a disapproving stare across the ship’s boat and his shipmates. “I’m sure you are,” he replied, his voice rumbling across the lawn like approaching thunder.
“Did he just insult us?” Conrad’s indignant voice floated from behind Roberts.
Avindair’s gaze snapped towards Conrad, and a sharp “Shush!” from Boothe followed. Avindair’s brow only knitted further together, and Roberts thought he saw the beginning of a snarl touch his upper lip.
“We came to this place to honor the Kionel,” Roberts said, taking a half-step to recapture Avindair’s gaze. “We wished to respect your ways, and to speak with the Great Mediator himself.”
Boothe let out an annoyed sigh behind him. Those words had been hers to speak; to lose them to a signals officer was something Roberts was sure she wouldn’t forget.
Fortunately, Avindair turned back to face Roberts, his gaze hard as granite.
“Good,” he finally said. He thrust one blue-and-gray gloved finger at Roberts. “You are to be our liaison.”
Roberts took a step back, shocked. “What?” he blurted in Standard.
“What did he say?” Boothe asked.
“Do I need to power up the weapons?” Conrad asked.
Avindair’s frown deepened even further. “Do you not understand me?”
“I do,” Roberts finally responded. “It’s just—”
“What is he saying?!” Boothe pressed.
“I’m activating the weapons,” Conrad decided.
Roberts whirled, his heart pounding.
“Don’t!” he snapped at Conrad. He turned to face Boothe. “They want me to be their liaison.”
Boothe’s face dissolved into a mask of incredulity. “Out of the question.”
Roberts spread his arms out, frustrated. “That’s what I’m trying to tell him!”
“Then do it!” Boothe demanded.
Roberts turned back to Avindair. The intimidatingly large man stared down at him unamused.
“This is not a negotiation,” Avindair said.
“Excuse me?” Roberts blurted.
Avindair nodded almost imperceptibly to Boothe and Conrad. “I don’t need to speak your language to know an objection.”
Insightful, Roberts thought. He took a breath to continue.
Avindair beat him to it.
“You or no one,” Avindair stated. “Those are the Kionel’s terms.”
“I’m honored,” Roberts managed. How the hell did this go sideways so fast? “But I’m not a trained diplomat. I’m just an—”
“You,” Avindair repeated, “or no one.”
Seriously now, Roberts thought, light-headed. What the hell is going on?
“That doesn’t look promising,” Boothe offered in a sarcastic monotone.
Roberts turned to her. “He’s saying me or no one.”
Boothe blew out an exasperated sigh, then stepped next to Roberts. She held her head high, her shoulders back, and she met Avindair’s bearing with her own.
“Translate for me.” It was not a request.
Roberts acknowledged and Boothe spoke, Roberts translating as quickly as he could.
“We appreciate your interest in Mr. Roberts,” Boothe said, her voice firm but neutral. “But he is not qualified to best represent neither my ship nor the Union of Star Systems to the people of your world.”
Avindair stared down at Boothe, his expression betraying nothing.
“While we’re very happy that he’s helped us with these first steps, we must proceed only with those best qualified for this endeavor.” She’s nervous, Roberts realized as he parroted her words to the ambulatory mountain in front of him. She only uses multisyllabic words when she’s worried. She hid it well, of course, but after over two years living in close quarters there was little about his shipmates that surprised him any longer.