Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  The ghostly holographic representation of the Motinai cruiser flashed red, Hyperion’s weapons punching through her energy shielding to superheat and crack its deep green hull. Debris sprayed outward like water from a sprinkler, and secondary explosions from its weapons bays ignited all along her port side.

  “Heavy damage to the cruiser,” Conrad called out. “Secondary explosions in her missile bays, and multiple hull breaches detected.” Not bad, Big H, he thought appreciatively.

  “We’re not out of this yet,” Boothe snapped. “Where’s my solution on that transport?”

  Shit! The word almost escaped Conrad’s lips. I forgot about the transport! He moved as quickly as his combat-suit stiffened arms would allow, manually slewing one of the targeting arrays to the bearing Malley had provided. A half breath later and there was the transport, its organic green lines a stark contrast to the Terran’s hand-hewn angles. He glanced along its port beam, straining to see its armor drop points, making sure that they hadn’t…

  Conrad's skin went cold. “Uh, oh.”

  “Report!” Boothe snapped.

  “The transport has dropped its troops,” Conrad returned, horrified.

  “Damn it!” Boothe roared. “Sensors, how many?!”

  Conrad glanced over at Malley. She frantically re-arranged her displays, eyes wide, her throat working as she swallowed back fear.

  “Sensors, report,” Boothe pressed.

  “I, um…” Malley adjusted her display, “…I count ninety-six armored units in drop formation closing in on Leonathier,” she finally said.

  “Fuck!” Boothe snarled. The bridge crew stiffened as one: the captain rarely, if ever allowed harsh expletives to enter her speech. She slammed her fist into her arm rest and whirled towards Conrad, face red with rage. “WEPS, we need to knock those—”

  The incoming fire alarm howled across the bridge, cutting Boothe off. Conrad instantly searched his displays. The Motinai cruiser was badly wounded, rolling slowly along its Z-axis, shedding atmosphere and pieces of hull. Where the hell is that coming from?!

  Conrad didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

  “Reiten drone, bearing zero-three-zero slash zero-four-zero!” Malley’s voice was a full octave higher than normal. Target is on terminal—”

  Malley didn’t get to finish her sentence. The hull rang with impact as the Reiten drone tore into Hyperion’s starboard bow.

  Hyperion’s bridge displays flicked off and the entire deck darkened to red as emergency lights kicked on. The Damage Control Artificial Intelligence (DCAI) spat out reports of hull breaches, closing bulkheads, and power loss throughout the ship.

  Conrad flopped back in his seat and shook his head. “Shit,” he finally said aloud.

  Boothe slapped her arm rest with an open hand, then stood up. “Training, end simulation.” She spoke the words wearily.

  There was a brief pause, then the cool voice of the training AI system responded. “Training simulation ended,” it confirmed congenially. The bridge lights returned to normal, the displays reactivated, and the view outside the plasteel windows once again dissolved to reality—the simulated view fading away.

  Conrad looked over the bridge, doing his best to keep his face impassive. Santiago stared at her displays, monitoring Hyperion’s orbit, satisfied with her performance. By contrast, Malley sat cadet straight, her lips pursed into a tight bow, jaw jutting forward. She fucked up, Conrad thought, and she knows it.

  And so did I, he reflected.

  Boothe surveyed her crew. She looked terrible. Dark circles hung heavy under her eyes; her already thin features appeared honed to an edge. She’s pushing herself, Conrad realized. Why?

  “Training,” Boothe called to the training AI. “Exercise results.”

  “Mission objective failed,” the AI responded cheerfully. “Hyperion rendered combat ineffective by Reiten drone at 0526 Fleet Standard Time. Motinai ground troops landed unchallenged. Loss of civilian life estimated in excess of three-zero-thousand.”

  Boothe took in a deep breath, her jaw cocked to one side, then spoke again. “Key failure points?”

  “Sensors failed to detect Reiten drone on station after call to general quarters at 0518 Fleet Standard Time,” the training AI explained. “Sensors failed to track Reiten drone after weapon sensor activation at 0520 Fleet Standard Time. Sensors failed to—”

  “Training, cancel,” Boothe said, her tone hard and lifeless.

  “Canceled,” the Training AI acknowledged.

  Conrad turned to Malley. The lieutenant sat emotionless. A remnant of the last Motinai War, Reiten drones were dropped into space either before or during the opening moments of combat. They waited silently, sometimes for years, until activated by their AI when they determined a viable target. That they operated both at sublight and in T-Space made them a waking nightmare for any spacer worth their rations. She should have known better, Conrad concluded—and felt awful for it.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Boothe said, punctuating each word. “Boucher’s Task Force is still twelve weeks out. Until then, Hyperion is this world’s only line of defense. Without us, the people down there will die.” She paused to let the message penetrate each of her crew to their marrow.

  Malley remained stock-still; her cheeks flushed.

  “Secure from exercise conditions,” Boothe snapped. Then with a harsh tone, “WEPS, Sensors, meet me in Briefing One in fifteen.”

  Conrad’s gut turned, and he spotted Malley’s eyes widen. They both managed a crisp, “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  “And people?” Boothe added, her voice hardening. “Don’t let me down like this again.”

  The crew nodded, then turned back to their duties.

  “What do you mean we don’t know?” Boothe flashed at Malley. The captain had shed the combat coverings revealing a bag that hadn’t seen a fresher for at least two days. She glared up at Malley standing before the briefing table, a collage of video and still images floating behind her.

  “The Phelspharians are clever,” Malley managed. “We’ve learned a few things,” she gestured, and a handful of conversation transcriptions floated up behind her, “like there seem to be operatives and moles in every one of their capitals, but anything deeper than that is just not there.”

  “Why not?” Boothe challenged.

  Malley shrugged. Conrad spotted the tiniest shake in her right hand as she moved, and he fought the urge to hold her. “Chief Okoro believes they’re hand-dropping the highest end communications now.” Malley's voice was quiet in the briefing space.

  “Now?” Conrad asked, frowning. “But not before?”

  Malley shook her head, and she flung a few screens to her far left. “No, sir. Prior to our first contact, almost all their communications were across encrypted cables. But the moment we arrived they went dark.”

  Boothe exhaled, flopped back, and closed her eyes. “They know we’re watching them,” she concluded. She sounded more tired than Conrad had ever heard her.

  “That’s our assessment, yes, ma’am,” Malley replied, her voice small.

  “Is there any way Roberts can help us on this?” Conrad asked.

  “No.” Boothe was emphatic. “He’s got enough on his plate already.” She sat up and faced Malley. “Tell me what’s happening with him today.”

  Malley brought up a schedule of media broadcasts. “He’s supposed to be in an hour-long interview with Tarkena at ten-hundred. After that he has a press conference with Ayasha Prassan, the Tenastan Canyaka, or Prime Minister, though that’s not the best translation—”

  “Lieutenant, focus,” Boothe pressed.

  Malley nodded, chagrined. “Yes, ma’am. Finally, he has an early evening meeting with the Kionel.”

  “Another chance for him to be berated,” Conrad grumbled.

  “You’re not wrong,” Boothe replied, rubbing her forehead with her palm.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Malley blurted.

  Boothe looked up at Mall
ey, her patience visibly dwindling. “Explain, Lieutenant.”

  “Let me show you,” Malley said. She modified the holo display behind her, and images of Roberts being mocked by all major networks hung in the air. Alongside them were images of throngs of people pressed against the Kionel’s palace gate, protest signs in hand. Below, archival images of the Kionel silently jabbering with world leaders.

  “The Kionel is their Great Mediator,” Malley started, “but he and his staff have done nothing but undermine and control Commander Roberts’ position since he arrived. And this?” She expanded the video images of the protesters demanding that “Terrans Go Home!” until it nearly dominated the holo space. “This has been going on for two solid days.”

  “They’re frightened,” Boothe responded. “It happened with Gant, too.”

  “I know,” Malley replied, her finger dashing across her data pad interface to find what she was looking for, “but let’s compare it to this.” She flung another pair of videos up, shrinking the protest video back to its normal thumbnail size.

  One screen displayed a group of protesters demanding Kalinteli war reparations, while another showed a younger Kionel speaking firmly but politely to Matik Harmmani, the Kalinteli Arhat, or “Chief Citizen.” While Harmmani blustered, the Kionel remained firm but calm. Meanwhile, the second video showed the protesters escorted away by guardsmen—sometimes in bindings—from the palace gates.

  “The Kionel didn’t let those protesters last more than a few hours outside his gate,” Malley continued. “And that was over something that those people really had a reason to complain about.”

  “Maybe he’s just less patient,” Conrad offered.

  “No, sir,” Malley replied. “That can’t be it.”

  Boothe blew out an exasperated breath. “Then what is it, Lieutenant?”

  Malley shook her head. “We’re not sure, ma’am,” she finally said. “All we know is that things on the surface are a lot more complicated than we first thought.”

  Boothe’s eyes darkened. “Then I suggest you uncomplicate things in a hurry.”

  Malley stiffened. “Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”

  Boothe nodded. “Dismissed.”

  Malley nodded, shut down her holofeed, and started towards the door—eager to make her exit.

  “And Ms. Malley?” Boothe called after her.

  Malley performed a smart about-face. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You’re going to review everything we have on Reiten drones and orbital combat tactics. I also want an after-action report of our exercise on my desk before noon. Clear?”

  Malley nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” With that she left.

  The moment the door was secured behind her Boothe slumped. Conrad leaned over the desk, frowning. “Lydia, you need to rest,” he said. “I’ll take your watch.”

  “You need to exercise,” Boothe retorted. Conrad sat back, hurt, and Boothe softened. “You’re getting results now, Zaid,” she continued. “I don’t want to impact that.”

  “And I don’t want a captain who’s exhausted on watch.”

  Boothe considered. “Half a watch,” she conceded. “Wake me at two bells.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Conrad replied, relieved.

  Boothe stood and considered Conrad carefully, her gaze like stone, but she spoke the words gently. “You know wouldn’t have forgotten that transport if you’d kept your eyes off Malley. I can see why you’re fond of her, but you have got to keep your emotions in check.”

  Conrad acknowledged, contrite. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Boothe nodded then left the briefing room, but not before she touched his shoulder on the way out.

  When Boothe had cleared the room, Conrad exhaled slowly, trying to release his tension into the empty space. You’re in it now, he grumbled internally. You’ve got a helluva mess to clean up.

  Conrad’s wristcom buzzed. He flipped it open and a secure comm screen appeared.

  Conrad recoiled. He fought the urge to chase after Boothe, but the “Eyes-Only” admonition kept him from moving. Instead, he stared at the message and did his best to ignore the growing dread in his gut.

  The message was simple:

  260930FST DEC 56

  IMMEDIATE

  FM CNC TSS PERCIVAL CV272

  TO CMDR ZAID CONRAD XO TSS HYPERION DSRV1980

  EYES ONLY/NOEXO

  MSG118950

  SUBJ/STATUS

  GET ME UP TO SPEED -- GB

  END

  Decades of service automatically stripped away the routing information that told him the message had come from the commanding officer of T.S.S. Percival, that it had taken nearly two days to reach him over tachyon relays, and that he was expected to provide an immediate response. Instead, all he could focus on was the message itself:

  “Get me up to speed.”

  That message had come directly from Admiral Gerard Boucher.

  Conrad sat back, rubbed his hand against his head, and did his best to ignore the feeling of dread that swept over him.

  22

  Kionel’s Palace

  Kionel’s Chambers

  Leonathier, Tenasta

  16 Sardua 1066

  “What couldn’t wait?” the Kionel asked. He occupied his desk chair like a king on his throne, glaring at Roberts above steepled fingers. Behind him, the mid-morning sun beat down on the Leonathier skyline, while the non-stop traffic on its roadways had thinned before the midday rush.

  “Your answer,” Roberts replied, fighting the urge to cross his arms where he stood.

  Despite her objections, Adelisa had passed his request up to the Kionel’s assistant, who in turn fit Roberts in for a scant fifteen minutes before a H’Tanzian and Tenastan trade dispute. Jagrav had then rushed him up the elevator, reminding him again to bow as he entered, before turning him loose in the chambers.

  Whoever that assistant is, Roberts thought, I owe them a bottle of Scotch.

  “And why couldn’t this wait until this evening?” the Kionel challenged. His desk was covered by a neat arrangement of files, a notepad and pen cast carelessly to one side. “You’re not the only person with demands on my time.”

  “But I’m the only one with a real outsider’s perspective,” Roberts replied. “And if we’re going to have a meaningful dialog, this issue has to be hashed out first.”

  The Kionel squinted, considering, then nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at a glass-covered timepiece on his desk. “You have twelve minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Roberts accepted, then smiled. “Hikasa,” he began, “there’s a Terran word I need to familiarize you with. It’s “meritocracy”. It’s a system of government where those selected to rule are chosen because of their abilities.” Roberts spoke the words in the same way he’d address one of his junior enlisted troops.

  “Sukratyaprasana.” The Kionel spat out the word as if it had a foul taste. “That’s our word for that…” his upper lip curled into a snarl, “experiment.” He raised a single thinning eyebrow. “How is this related to my granddaughter? Or do you intend to use this time to object to the manner in which we designate our rulers?”

  “No,” Roberts replied, “but that concept provides context for my answer.”

  The Kionel stared at him, then glanced at his timepiece again. “Ten minutes.”

  Roberts nodded, frowning as he chose his words. “Hikasa,” Roberts began, “my ancestors come from a part of my planet called North America.” Roberts kept his voice calm, his pace deliberate. “It was settled by people who revered, above all else, freedom. They tamed a hard land and founded one of our world’s first meritocratic civilizations.”

  “I see,” the Kionel answered carefully, his golden-eyed stare unnerving. “And is that the civilization upon which your Union is based?”

  “No, sir,” Roberts replied. “That civilization failed.”

  “Then, like with our attempts, sukratyaprasana proved to be ineffective,” the Kionel replied, his patience fadi
ng. “Again, I fail to see what this has to do with my question.”

  “You don’t understand, sir,” Roberts replied, ignoring the Kionel’s flash of indignation, and pressed on. “That civilization didn’t die all at once—but slowly, piece-by-piece. Over time the most predatory of its citizens re-established the rules of bloodlines and inheritance that their forefathers had fought and died to unravel.”

  “As happened here,” the Kionel said, impatient. “Eight minutes.”

  Roberts spoke faster. “Within three centuries, most of the power was back in the grip of people who’d earned their place not through labor, but by luck of birth. Meanwhile, the people who performed the work, who learned the skills that kept that civilization running—they were tricked out of their freedoms with empty promises of convenience, safety, and security.”

  “Then they were fools,” the Kionel interrupted coldly. “Seven minutes.”

  “Global wars followed,” Roberts continued. “All fought in the name of “Liberty for All”. Those failed, too. It took until our own first contact for my ancestors to end those destructive habits and establish a civilization based on those original ideals.”

  The Kionel regarded Roberts coldly. “And is that what you intend to do with us, Commander Roberts?” His voice was a glacier moving over gravel.

  “Not at all,” Roberts replied. “That civilization may have failed, but the principles on which it was built are still with us. Liberty, equality, fraternity: those ideals are sacred to my people. So much so that I swore an oath to defend them with my life.”

  “What is your point, Commander?” the Kionel challenged.

  “That is my point, sir,” Roberts replied. “Your granddaughter’s title, her bearing, even the way she speaks to her assistant is an affront to everything I hold dear.”

  The Kionel drew in a deep breath and his jaw clamped shut, but he said nothing. Roberts pressed on.

  “But that’s not her fault,” Roberts spoke the words with as much conviction as he could muster. “This is your world, not mine. It’s not right for me to expect you to reflect my beliefs.” He straightened like a first-year cadet and fixed his gaze to a distant point in space, as if he were an ensign reporting to his first commanding officer. “I was wrong, Hikasa. For that, I apologize.”