Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  It wasn’t until he heard the sickening crunch of Kawin’s skull impacting the concrete below that Gishkim realized what he’d done. Dasa’s plan was ruined. An investigation was sure to follow. They were doomed.

  Or were they?

  Gishkim moved back to Kawin’s office. A suicide note was out of the question—Gishkim neither knew what the administrator’s handwriting looked like, nor how he wrote—but maybe he didn’t need one. He glanced down at the papers from folder 38597C, looking for anything that was compromising.

  That’s when Gishkim spotted it. A single receipt for the sale of the item marked 14A. The tablet, its carved language ancient in the extreme.

  Gishkim smiled. Maybe, he thought, they had a chance after all.

  Gishkim closed his bag, turned on the lights in Kawin’s office, then strolled over to the reception area door, making sure to firmly close the rear access stairwell door. He stopped for a moment by the reception door, took three deep breaths, then slammed it open, rushing onto the metal staircase leading up to the second-floor reception area.

  “Help!” Gishkim screamed. “He’s c-crazy!”

  Preska was the first to respond to Gishkim’s screams, panting as he took the stairs to the reception area. He saw the administrator’s office, the papers scattered across his desk, and finally, after spotting the opened window, he looked outside at the bloody mess below. He staggered backward and vomited into the only potted plant in the hallway, retching so hard Gishkim worried the old man would have a heart attack before he called for backup.

  Security locked down the facility almost immediately afterwards, trapping the last few Power Shift stragglers in the locker room. The Central Authority Agents arrived soon after, their crisp black uniforms a terrifying contrast to the unkempt security personnel on duty. They wasted no time. Preska pointed out Gishkim as the man who had raised the alarm. Within minutes of the CAA’s arrival, Gishkim found himself in a windowless room, sitting across a pressboard table from the man who had beaten Obet to death.

  Gishkim glanced at the nameplate pinned just-so above the agent’s right breast: Macika. Good. Now he had a name.

  “Did you kill Administrator Kawin?” Macika asked the question easily, with no more malice than asking a stranger for the time.

  “N-no,” Gishkim answered. “I t-tried to s-s-stop h-him.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Macika’s face was expressionless, his eyes soulless.

  “Why w-wouldn’t y-y-you?”

  “Because I deal with liars every day of my life, Associate Gishkim,” Macika said, his tone completely conversational. “And you’re lying.”

  Gishkim shrugged. “I’m n-not, but if y-you w-w-want to find o-o-out if I a-am,” Gishkim lowered his hands, gripped either side of the table, and offered Macika a smile, “you’re welcome to try.”

  Macika’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

  “That was a mistake, Associate Gishkim,” Macika said. He slid his chair back, ready to stand. Gishkim didn’t let him.

  Gishkim lifted the table from the floor and shoved it forward like a battering ram, pinning the Central Authority agent against the wall by his neck. Macika’s eyes widened, a gagging noise gurgling from his throat.

  Macika was quiet now. Good.

  Gishkim stood maintaining the pressure against the agent’s throat.

  “Look at what’s o-on his desk,” Gishkim said. “You’ll s-see why he jumped.”

  “You…” Macika wheezed, his face turning purple, “you’re insane.”

  “L-look at his d-desk,” Gishkim repeated.

  Macika tried to kick Gishkim, to no avail. He grabbed the edges of the table, trying to wrest it from Gishkim’s control, but it was fruitless. Finally, he sagged.

  “Will you l-look a-at his d-d-desk?” Gishkim asked.

  Macika fixed Gishkim with a look of pure hatred.

  “You won’t get out of here alive,” the agent wheezed.

  Gishkim knew he should have been frightened. He knew that he should have felt sick for killing Kawin, and even for torturing the man in front of him, but he didn’t. Both had hurt others, either out of selfishness or duty. Neither, he realized, deserved his sympathy.

  “Shame,” Gishkim finally sighed. “Now neither will you.”

  Macika’s eyes widened in terror as Gishkim pressed the table forward. Not suddenly, no. Odet had been beaten to death slowly. Why should Macika have it any easier? Macika struggled, kicking at the table, but all it took was Gishkim pressing harder to silence him.

  I’m sorry I didn’t do this for you when it counted, Odet, Gishkim thought. He smiled. But I’ll do my best to make up for lost time.

  Macika’s eyes widened, then rolled back, his face turning purple.

  The door to the room exploded open and suddenly Gishkim’s skin crawled as if filled by an angry beehive. He dropped to the ground, his body seizing, his breath stopped. He was vaguely aware of a crackling electrical sound, the smell of smoke, and a tumble of voices one over the other.

  Then there was silence.

  19

  Kionel’s Palace

  Kionel’s Chambers

  Leonathier, Tenasta

  15 Sardua 10

  “Well?!” The Kionel’s voice echoed like a rifle shot across his chambers. Adelisa jumped, startled, her movements visible to Avindair in the reflection of the early evening chamber windows. Almost before he noticed, she had acquiesced; head down, hands folded palm flat against her abdomen.

  “No excuse, Hikasa,” Adelisa managed, her voice small.

  The Kionel stepped from behind his desk and strode over to Avindair. He locked eyes with his commandant, his expression a pastiche of fury.

  “And you?” the Kionel pressed. “Why did you treat a guest in my own home with such contempt?”

  Avindair prepared his reply, his calm borne out of decades of service to the Kionelaite.

  “Hikasa,” Avindair started, his voice steady. “We have no idea what this person wants—”

  “Which is why we needed to speak to him!” The Kionel wheezed, then coughed, his frail back curved downward as he spasmed.

  He’s getting weaker. The unwelcome thought came to Avindair not for the first time.

  Adelisa rushed to the Kionel’s side and took him by the arm. Rather than resist, the Kionel allowed his granddaughter to lead him back to his desk chair. He settled as the coughing subsided, his face red, chin speckled by sputum.

  “Would you have been this rude to Harmmani?” the Kionel challenged between smaller coughs as he wiped his mouth with a ragged military-issue handkerchief.

  “Respectfully,” Avindair replied, “this man is not a world leader.”

  The Kionel looked to one side, a sneer pulling at his upper lip. When he turned back to Avindair, his face had deepened to an unhealthy red.

  “This man is not of our world, Shishia!” the Kionel stormed. He looked away and coughed again, each spasm shaking his entire body. When he turned back to his commandant and his granddaughter, he looked frailer than either had seen him before. “Why would we treat him with anything less than respect?”

  Precisely because he is not of our world! Avindair opened his mouth to say, but Adelisa beat him by a picosecond.

  “Our treatment of the Terran—” Adelisa said, stepping forward, her head still low.

  “His name is Roberts,” the Kionel interrupted, then coughed again.

  “—Roberts,” Adelisa corrected, “is entirely my fault.” She took a moment to choose her words. “I wanted him to understand what it meant to be here, in your presence.” She lowered her head, shamed. “I see now that my methods were injurious.”

  The Kionel rocked back in his chair, still coughing, but fixed Adelisa with an unyielding gaze.

  “A lenient assessment.” the Kionel replied once his cough had subsided. His eyes narrowed. “Why are you so offended by his knowledge of our ways?”

  “Because while he knows much about us, we know nothin
g of them,” Adelisa answered instantly. “And his arrogance is…” she struggled to find the words, “...off-putting.”

  “Off-putting,” the Kionel repeated slowly. “He speaks our language, learns our ways, and that is “off-putting” to you?”

  Adelisa looked down again, chagrined.

  “If you’d watched and listened during their arrival,” the Kionel pressed, “you would have seen that he is the only one of their crew who even tried to know us. And you answered that effort by insulting him!”

  Adelisa shrank even further, and Avindair glanced down at her. She’s strong, Avindair thought, his heart swelling. She can take this.

  If the Kionel noticed Avindair's quick glance he didn’t show it. Instead, he blew out an angry burst of air and looked away, disgusted.

  “I suppose that’s why you both threw him to the media,” the Kionel continued, his jaw working side-to-side after he spoke.

  “It was the best way to introduce him to the reporters—” Adelisa began.

  The Kionel stopped her words with a look. She averted her eyes, embarrassed.

  “I expected better of you,” he said tiredly.

  Avindair didn’t think Adelisa could have been any more humiliated. He was wrong.

  “You will apologize to Commander Roberts,” the Kionel proclaimed, raising his head high, his cold gaze unwavering. “Not Nashita, not Avindair, you. And you will do everything in your power to help him recover the credibility you helped him so deftly destroy.” The Kionel’s chin dropped slightly, but his eyes remained locked on Adelisa. “Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Hikasa,” Adelisa replied.

  “Then do it,” the Kionel snapped, looking away. “Avindair, you stay.”

  Avindair remained where he stood as Adelisa took her required single step back prior to turning from her grandfather. Then she was gone, the elevator doors closing after her.

  “We have a problem, Shishia,” the Kionel said after a long moment.

  Avindair’s eyebrows raised, curious. Is he as concerned as we are? Avindair thought. Could this be part of a larger plan to keep the Terran better monitored? For the first time since the Terrans had been spotted on orbit, a tug of hope pulled at his chest. He didn’t say any of this, of course; that would be unacceptable. Instead, he straightened, his head held high. “What would you have me do, Hikasa?”

  The Kionel pulled himself to his feet, then walked slowly to the window overlooking his garden. He stared down at the Terran ship—no, “boat”, as he’d heard the Terran correct Nashita earlier in the day—and his shoulders sagged.

  “I need you to stop indulging my granddaughter,” the Kionel finally said. The older man sounded more tired than Avindair had ever heard him.

  Avindair blinked, surprised, then blinked again. His stomach tightened into a knot, and when he spoke again, he had to clear his voice first.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Hikasa,” Avindair finally managed.

  The Kionel sighed, then turned to face Avindair. He looked as tired as he sounded.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Avindair dared not react. He simply stared straight ahead, his face impassive, his arms to his side.

  The Kionel walked over to him and looked him in the eye. There was no malice, just fatigue.

  “You don’t hide your affection particularly well,” the Kionel continued, “and I see it reciprocated, at least in part.” The Kionel’s voice hardened, “But matters of state must take precedence.”

  Avindair’s heart constricted in his chest. Had he allowed Adelisa to push beyond her defined duties? That Avindair had to ask the question at all was his answer.

  “Too much depends on our learning all we can about this man and his people,” the Kionel continued. “I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”

  Death will arrive on quiet fire, and in its wake will follow disease, pestilence, and subjugation. The words appeared in Avindair’s mind, carved deeply into the tablet on which he’d first read them. He blinked away the memory, forcing himself to focus, but not before the Kionel observed his distraction.

  “And I see that you understand,” the Kionel said, satisfied.

  “Yes, Hikasa,” Avindair replied through a tightened throat.

  The Kionel nodded by way of answer, then slowly walked back to his chair, steadying himself with one hand on his desk. So much weaker, Avindair thought again. Why could they have not come a decade earlier, when he was in his prime?

  The Kionel reached under his desk, and a resounding click went through the chamber.

  He’s shut off the cameras, Avindair thought, surprised. While the Kionel wasn’t always televised—even he needed privacy at times—he only rarely shut off the cameras in the chamber before he exited for his night’s rest. To do it now made Avindair’s stomach flip sideways.

  The Kionel shuffled through several folders on his desk, then slid one towards Avindair. “This is yours,” he proclaimed.

  Avindair frowned, then reached down and picked up the blue folder. Security stamps marked it as “Sensitive / Compartmentalized,” and its initial blocks traced a vertical line straight up the chain of command.

  “What is it?” Avindair asked, forgetting the normal pleasantries as he stared at the folder.

  “Open it,” the Kionel responded.

  Is this a punishment? Avindair thought. Have I just been ordered to do a polar ice survey? He cracked open the cover, afraid of what he’d find inside.

  Clipped to the top of the folder were a series of grainy black and white photographs. Some displayed what looked to be birds streaking low against the horizon, while others captured curious vehicles hanging over Tenastan fields. The final one, however, caught his eye. It showed a farmhouse yard at night, its grass illuminated by a spotlight, as three figures clad head-to-toe in opaque coverings busied themselves with three supine figures on the ground. Even with the low resolution of the image, Avindair realized the bodies on the ground were a farmer and his family.

  “What is this?” Avindair looked up, a snarl on his lip. “Is this a Kalinteli Black Op?”

  The Kionel sat back, his face impassive. “Look closer,” he said.

  Avindair looked back at the image. Yes, he could see a figure leaning over a child—a young girl, by the dress carefully pressed down to cover her legs—while another worried over a needle in the farmer’s arm. Only the last figure was nowhere near any of the others, moving instead towards—

  Goosebumps shot over Avindair’s arms, and he looked up at the Kionel, shocked.

  “Is that—?” Avindair began.

  “That’s what you’re going to tell me,” the Kionel replied, hard. “Report only to me and discuss this with no one. Do you understand?”

  Avindair nodded, still stunned. He settled determinedly back into parade rest, the folder behind his back. “Your words,” Avindair replied, “my will.”

  “Good,” the Kionel replied. “Now, unless another spaceship lands on the lawn, I would like several hours to rest.”

  With that, Avindair was dismissed. He took his obligatory step back, performed a crisp about-face, then strode towards the elevator, folder in hand.

  If this shows what I think it shows... Avindair thought. He pressed the elevator button to return to the foyer.

  The last thing Avindair saw before the doors closed was the Kionel standing by the window, one hand steadying himself against the glass, as he looked down at the spaceship sleeping on his lawn.

  20

  Golden’s Hold

  14 July 2344

  The hover gurney slipped out of Roberts’ hands, his bloodied fingers leaving thick streaks across its white handles. He staggered back, his feet making wet sucking noises in the mud. He grabbed at the gurney again, determined to get the patient strapped to its surface to the waiting ship’s boat.

  A hollow thud filled the air, and a mortar shell impacted what was left of the battlefield clinic. The shockwave smashed through his chest, and the bri
ght flash of secondary explosions blossomed into the night sky. The patient—he couldn’t tell if they were male or female under the bandage-wrapped face—moaned, their hands clenching as the heat of weapons fire washed over them. They shook their head side-to-side frantically as Roberts pulled the gurney forward, his eyes locked on the surgeon struggling with her own gurney in the mud in front of him.

  Just a little farther, Roberts thought, ignoring the explosions, the lights, and the screams. His eyes remained focused on the bloodied surgeon ahead. Just a little bit farther and we can get out of here.

  Another thud smacked him in the chest, this time closer as the mortars trained towards their target. His patient yelled, coughing blood and staining the bandages under their chin. Roberts tripped, slammed his knees into the mud, and screamed. The in-flight ejection that had landed him in the hospital only hours before had left him broken, but still ambulatory. “You can walk,” the surgeon had told him, “so you can help.”

  Another thud, this time even closer. Arms and legs exploded upward in a grisly fountain, and he fought the urge to retch.

  Keep going!

  Roberts pulled himself to his feet, his legs burning with the effort. The surgeon in front of him staggered forward, her hover gurney sliding over the imperfections in the ground like a puck over uneven ice. Keep up with her! Roberts thought, his mind one more shock away from breaking completely. Follow her! Just a little bit farther…

  There was a flash, and the surgeon disintegrated into a pink mist. Viscera smacked into Roberts and he fell back, screaming as the mortars closed in, each thud spelling his doom.

  THUD! The few troops providing cover were torn apart, their armor and weapons shattered to pieces.

  THUD! Screams from behind told him that the rest of the patients were dead, gutted as they were being hauled to safety.