Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  “Can I finish eating?” Roberts asked after forcing a swallow of eggs. Nashita had rushed him down to the lower level of the new Kionel’s palace building and into the vast, multi-tabled parive in its basement. At first, he’d been disappointed. Rather than some grandiose dining room, he found himself in a cafeteria so like ones at the academy that he almost had flashbacks. Soon, however, the smell of fresh eggs, warm bread, and sizzling bacon captured his full attention. A brief trip down the serving line dished up fresh vegetables and eggs the likes of which he hadn’t seen in two years. They even have trays like us, he marveled, doing his best not to grin like an idiot. That they sprung from another planet, was irrelevant. All Roberts could think about at that moment was sinking his teeth into fresh food.

  “Don’t they feed you well on your, um…” Nashita squinted, unsure as to what he should say.

  “Starship,” Roberts said while stabbing another wad of scrambled eggs. “We call it a starship. And no, not this well.”

  Nashita’s lower lip pressed out and her eyebrows raised. “Huh,” she said. “That’s a surprise.”

  Manage contactee’s expectations. The line from the standard first contact manual floated in his mind’s eye, and he shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “We have our own hydroponics, and we print some fairly good proteins. It’s not bad, but it’s nothing like fresh food.”

  Nashita’s face twisted quizzically. “Did you just say you print food?”

  Roberts just chuckled as he chewed his eggs.

  Nashita looked away, processing what she’d heard, then shook her head. “Yeah, we’ll, um, we’ll circle back to that.” She energetically slid her clipboard towards him and pointed a manicured nail at the first agenda item.

  “First, we have a photo-op with Canyaka Prassan,” Nashita said, her words coming out in a barely coherent rush, “...then Dayati…” she sneered at the name, “...wants a brief one-on-one with you in front of your ship on the lawn. Then—”

  “That’s a boat,” Roberts interrupted.

  “What?” Nashita asked, her finger still in place on the agenda.

  “We came down in our ship’s boat,” he explained. “It’s called a “boat”.”

  “But it flies,” Nashita replied, unconvinced.

  Roberts offered a small shrug. “It’s tradition,” he said. “If there’s one thing the navy loves, it’s tradition.”

  Nashita’s eyes narrowed as she considered his answer. She nodded. “That’s… that’s good. We can work with that.” She threw back another swig from her plastic mug and stabbed at the third agenda item. “Then we get to the big show.” She smiled, nodding with excitement. “Your first real audience with the Kionel.”

  Suddenly, Roberts wasn’t very hungry. He sat back, nodding. First audience, he thought. Just me, him, and the eyes of everyone on the planet watching every word we say.

  Nashita paused and considered him even more quizzically. “You’re not nervous, are you?” she asked.

  Does the Pope shit in the woods? He thought. What he said, however, was, “Wouldn’t you be?”

  She looked away, a half-smile distorting the elegant lines of the tattoo on her cheek. “Well, yes,” she admitted, “but I don’t fly spaceships.”

  “And I don’t talk to world leaders,” Roberts replied. “I’m just an officer, doing his job.”

  Nashita tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrow.

  “I get that,” she said softly. “I really do.”

  Roberts smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

  Nashita returned the smile, then shook her head like a dog with its head caught in a jar. “Okay, um, let’s get back to—”

  She didn’t get to finish.

  Roberts didn’t hear Avindair’s approach. All he knew was that one moment he was eating with Nashita, and the next, the moving mountain who headed the Kionel’s Elite Guard stood by their table, glowering.

  “He is summoned,” Avindair growled at Nashita.

  Nashita shook her head and grabbed her clipboard. “No, no,” she said. “That’s not until—”

  Avindair silenced her by placing a large, calloused hand over her sheet.

  “He is summoned,” Avindair repeated.

  This can’t be good, Roberts thought.

  Nashita tensed and nervously gathered her belongings. “Okay,” she replied, the tiniest quaver entering her voice. “Um, we’ll, um, we’ll circle back on this after you get finished.” She spoke the words as if she didn’t believe a thing she said.

  Roberts stood, tamped down the ball of rolling ice in his gut, and forced a polite smile up at Avindair.

  “Lead the way,” Roberts said, gesturing.

  Avindair did not deign to reply. Instead, he strode away, expecting Roberts to keep up.

  Roberts shot a quick glance at Nashita. “Thanks for breakfast,” he offered.

  “Good luck,” she replied, thinly.

  With that he left, trotting to keep up with the commandant of the Kionel’s Guard.

  “You met my granddaughter yesterday,” the Kionel started without looking up. He stirred a delicate teacup with a polished silver spoon. The older man’s voice was cold, his features hard.

  Roberts nodded. “Yes, sir, I did,” he managed. He glanced around at the ceiling-mounted cameras, each giving news directors different angles by which to construct a visual narrative as the Kionel spoke. Just pretend they’re not there, Roberts thought, his eyes flicking from one camera to the next. It’s just you and the Kionel together, alone, in this room.

  The red lights of the cameras blinked at him impassively, and Roberts’ throat tightened.

  “And how did that go?” the Kionel asked. He looked up and held Roberts in a dispassionately golden stare; his face betraying nothing. Behind him, the morning sun dappled through a broken line of low cumulus clouds, their shadows crawling up the side of the Kisetra mountains like great insects.

  She told him, Roberts realized. Sweat erupted from his brow, and his collar suddenly felt entirely too tight. He took as deep a breath as he could manage while maintaining his military bearing.

  “Badly,” Roberts replied finally.

  “And why is that?” the Kionel asked, before taking a sip of his tea.

  “I was—” Roberts began. His voice caught in his throat.

  You were an ass, Roberts thought. Your pride got hurt, and you were angry, and you couldn’t keep your professionalism together when you needed it the most. Idiot!

  “Yes?” the Kionel prompted.

  “I was unkind,” Roberts finally managed.

  “Indeed,” the Kionel replied before taking another sip. His expression offered nothing.

  Roberts shifted, uncomfortable. “If, um—” he cleared his throat. “If I’ve offended anyone, on behalf of myself, the crew of Hyperion, and the Terran Star Force, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies.”

  The Kionel settled back slowly, his face stone. “Good,” he replied after a long moment. “Now tell me: why were you unkind?”

  “Sir?” Roberts asked, confused.

  The Kionel’s right eyebrow twitched, and Roberts realized his error. “Excuse me, Hikasa,” he corrected himself.

  “You’ve not struck me as a callous man,” the Kionel replied. “I wonder, what it was that would make you insult my family.”

  Insult my family… Roberts shrunk. Suddenly, his outburst felt less like a momentary lapse of judgement and more like an interstellar incident.

  “Well?” The Kionel pressed, his voice hardening.

  “I was upset,” Roberts blurted.

  “Upset?” The Kionel sneered. He pushed his teacup away, its contents sloshing like a wave in a storm. “Why?”

  “She was dismissive,” Roberts replied, his head spinning. “It’s a characteristic that…” he pursed his lips, then raised his head, “…that many of my people find distasteful.”

  “Why would that be?” the Kionel asked. His voice now granite. “She’s my granddaughter. She
carries a bloodline that reaches back over a thousand years to the first Kionel.”

  The Kionel stood and glared down at Roberts, his eyes hooded like a predator before a strike.

  “She’s been raised to lead since she could speak and has done countless good works.” His words were a hammer on an anvil. “Her life is one of service, sacrifice, and duty. If she sounded—how did you say it?—“dismissive”, young man, perhaps it had less to do with you and more to do with the trials of her own life. Have you considered that?” The last word sounded like a cannon shot.

  Roberts swallowed, mortified by the Kionel’s rebuke. Dear god, he thought, a bead of sweat running down his forehead, I have completely fucked this up.

  The Kionel’s jaw shifted the tiniest millimeter, taking an aloof aspect. “I expect an answer the next time we meet,” the Kionel concluded, his voice returning to its normal reserve. “After that we will consider whether or not we should proceed.”

  The Kionel turned his back, the audience concluded, and Avindair ushered Roberts out of the chambers.

  Roberts’ wristcom buzzed the moment the elevator doors opened to the foyer. Any hope that his humiliation had gone unseen was dashed the moment he stepped out. Reporters, staff, and even guardsman locked him with hard eyes. Though none said a word, their expressions made their contempt perfectly clear.

  “You can find your way from here,” Avindair growled. He pushed past Roberts like a piece of ambulatory granite and strode away. As the commandant moved down the stairs, Nashita trotted past him to the landing, clipboard tucked beneath her arm like a mother bird protecting her chick.

  Roberts groaned. Just what I need, he thought.

  Nashita stopped in front of him, her chin high. She assessed him for a few moments, then frowned.

  “Ouch,” she finally said. Her eyes sparkled with unexpected mirth.

  Roberts laughed despite himself, and she smiled.

  “What are you so happy about?” Roberts said. “Glad to be rid of me?”

  “It would make my days a lot easier,” she replied. “But that’s not it.”

  Roberts’ wristcom buzzed again, and he glanced down at the caller. Conrad’s ID tag floated above his wrist. I need to get this, he thought.

  Roberts glanced at the various doors on the second level, looking for a spot for privacy. “Is there—” he began.

  “You were just insulted by the Kionel,” Nashita interrupted. “That’s a very exclusive club.”

  “Really?” Roberts asked, still looking for a room. “Not a fan.” He met Nashita’s eyes and pointed at his wrist. “Is there somewhere private I can take this?”

  “Agrath’s Room,” Nashita replied, her voice falling back to business. “It’s one of the only places without monitor cameras.”

  “Without cameras?” Roberts replied, surprised.

  “Yes,” Nashita said, a playful smile on her face. “Adelisa thought you’d want some privacy after days in the spotlight.”

  Roberts blinked, surprised, then blew out an exasperated sigh. “I’m a gigantic ass,” he said.

  Nashita frowned, confused. “How are you a donkey?”

  Roberts chuckled, but his wristcom buzzed again reminding him of his priorities. “Only Agrath’s Room?” he asked again.

  Nashita just nodded.

  “Right,” Roberts said. He strode towards the landing, ignoring a new round of scornful stares as he reached the top. He slid to an abrupt stop and turned back towards Nashita. “Can you stall my next appointment?”

  Nashita’s mirth faded. “They’ve all canceled for today,” she excused. “Changing news environment. I’m sure you understand.”

  Any levity Roberts felt evaporated, and he nodded. “Yep,” he said. With that he trotted down the stairs and did his best to ignore the gaze of a people who hated him for one simple mistake.

  “What took you so long?” Conrad snapped, annoyed, the moment Roberts called from Agrath’s Room. The exec’s face was pale, even for him. Though Roberts couldn’t help but notice the first hints of definition returning to his features.

  “Had to get somewhere private,” Roberts replied.

  “After that performance, maybe you should just stay there,” Conrad grumbled. He glared at Roberts, furious. “What the hell did you say?”

  “I just reminded her about their history,” Roberts shrugged. “And then I might have told her that she’s a lousy communicator.”

  Conrad closed his eyes and put two fingers to his temples. He said nothing; just shook his head, his lips twitching with unexpressed rage. After a count of ten, he straightened, his eyes closed.

  “They wanted you. They got you.”

  “So, I’m not being recalled?” Roberts asked, exasperated.

  When Conrad opened his eyes, his expression was deadly serious. None of the bluster of the post-medication weeks was there. Instead, he saw something new on his executive officer’s face: fear.

  “Exec,” Roberts asked, “what’s wrong?”

  Conrad swallowed. When he spoke, it was the voice of a man on the gallows.

  “At 0930 Fleet Standard Time on 8 December 2356, the Motinai Empire formally declared war on the Union of Star Systems.”

  Roberts knees buckled, and he plummeted into the antiquated chair in front of Agrath’s desk. A wave of nausea pulsed through him; darkness pressing in around his vision.

  “They expressed their intention to correct the “mistake” of our existence,” Conrad continued darkly. “At 1015 Fleet Standard they hit our colony on Chángzhēng with a cluster of thirty-five thermonuclear devices.”

  No, thought Roberts, shaking. Not again.

  “All contact with the colony was lost,” Conrad continued, his voice broken. “Fleet considers all personnel and their families to be—” His throat caught, and Conrad averted his eyes, brimming with tears.

  A dozen years, Roberts thought. His hands shook, and he kept his breakfast down by force of will alone. That’s all the peace we got. A dozen years.

  Then Conrad spoke again, and everything changed.

  “On 12 December 2356, Fleet ordered a task force sent to our location to help protect this planet from Motinai attack,” Conrad said the words mechanically, as if he’d rehearsed them before he called down the surface. Even then, the last words required an effort that made Roberts’ soul sink.

  “The task force is expected to arrive within twelve weeks,” Conrad said, “and it’s being led by Admiral Gerard Boucher.”

  The moment Roberts heard the name he grabbed the wastebasket next to the desk and emptied his stomach into it. He kept vomiting until there was nothing left but bile, anger and pain.

  18

  Prayad, Kalintel

  Dasa’s plan started with a gift. Two days after Gishkim agreed to help her, she surprised him with a new satchel.

  “Do you like it?” Dasa asked, her slim body backlit by the dishwater sky outside her apartment window. She held the green canvas bag across her chest, its bulk large enough to hide her petite torso. She wiggled her bottom playfully as if modeling a piece of clothing, a wicked smile on her face.

  Gishkim grinned. The bag reminded him of the satchels he used to haul ammo or supplies during the war. He sometimes missed those days, as awful as they had been. Things just made more sense.

  “Now for the best part!” Dasa said, excited. She hopped on the couch, falling to her knees on the firm leather-covered cushions, and opened the satchel wide. “See anything?”

  Gishkim shook his head.

  Dasa reached into the satchel, moved her fingers to the rear, and, with a loud series of snaps, she pulled the bottom out of the bag.

  “False bottom,” Dasa said, grinning. She pointed at the remaining space. “That’s where we’ll store the files.”

  Gishkim grinned.

  After that Gishkim made a point of using his new bag everywhere. He even went out of his way to knock into coworkers with it, just to bring attention to his gift. That garnered a few com
pliments—it was a nice-looking bag, after all—but more often than not he was barked at for his clumsiness. Either way, the bag quickly became as much a part of Gishkim’s identity as his cina. Always there, but somehow invisible. That had been Dasa’s idea.

  The next part of her plan involved a bar. Duse Mirt was a popular dive, frequented by office staff and dockworkers alike. Small, dark, and miserable, it served as the most convenient spot to drink away the pain of serving the Central Authority. Gishkim had avoided it since he’d arrived, but Dasa insisted that he go. Alone. Frequently. So, in the days that followed, Gishkim would finish his shift and head to Duse Mirt. He’d order a drink, smile at strangers, and even try to talk to the bartender. Most of the time, however, he just watched the news like everybody else, their eyes glued to the story of the alien sleeping in the Kionel’s palace.

  When Gishkim wasn’t worried about Dasa’s plan, sweating on the docks, or arguing with Vyzia about the vid schedule, he fretted about the aliens. They terrified him. It wasn’t just their technology but their actions that so eerily matched stories from the fabled “First Kionel’s Tablet.” Gishkim reminded himself that those translations came from a discredited work from his youth, but that offered little comfort. Titled The Real Kionel Aetna, the best seller was built entirely around second-hand accounts of a stone slab hidden deep in the Kionel’s palace. The book had rocked the world, but the media had utterly destroyed it, exposing the author as a forger himself. That had sealed the story’s fate for Gishkim, but now he had a sickening feeling that he was wrong. The alien’s actions matched the reported words too closely to be a coincidence. If the stories of the Aditali were true—if these aliens really were the Aditali—then everything he knew would soon end in blood and fire.

  Maybe, Gishkim realized, that was why he was so happy to help Dasa. Thinking about her plan kept his mind off the sword hanging above their heads.

  The third part of Dasa’s plan was the hardest on him. Kawin frequently worked late. For all his faults, the administrator was diligent. Because of that, Gishkim was usually long gone by the time he left the warehouse. That meant Gishkim now volunteered for as much Power Time as he could. It established him leaving later than others, and again, like the satchel, made him invisible to the security team that guarded the outer gate. Unlike the internal guards that went through their daily pat-and-poke, those who manned the gate cared little for who passed. Gishkim’s days became very long indeed, his only respite the few minutes he could steal with Dasa before he headed back to his bunk. It wasn’t enough, but at least it gave him something to look forward to after a grueling day moving cargo.