by A. L. Bruno
The Kionel watched him for a long moment, the slow whir of his desktop clock the only sound in the chamber. Suddenly he thrust himself over his desk, his posture that of a tiger pouncing on its prey.
“But you don’t,” the older man’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “You see your error, but you don’t regret making it.”
Roberts stiffened. He focused on his breathing, and on keeping his temper under control.
“Do you?” the Kionel snapped scornfully.
Before he realized what he was doing, Roberts turned and locked eyes with the Kionel.
“No,” Roberts replied. Roberts imagined that he could hear Boothe moan in horror on board Hyperion, but he didn’t care.
“What?!” the Kionel boomed. He stood up, his shoulders squared, his cheeks ruddy.
“My people revere freedom,” Roberts returned. “I’ll never apologize for that.”
“Freedom?” the Kionel scoffed. “You’re in uniform serving under another! You’ve given yourself over to your ship and to your captain. How is that any different from the way my people live their lives?”
“Because it was my choice, sir,” Roberts declared. Never averting his gaze, his voice filling the room. “It’s the path I chose, for my reasons. I didn’t have a lord force me into his army for his own selfish ends. I chose to serve so I could better not only myself, but the rest of my species. That’s the difference. And if you can’t see that then I don’t know if we have much more to say to each other.”
Roberts’s voice rang off the chamber rafters. He wasn’t even conscious that he’d yelled until just that moment. When realized what he’d said, his stomach sank.
Time to pack my bags, Roberts thought.
The Kionel rounded his desk in a rush, his features a mask of fury. He glowered down at Roberts, and for the first time the Terran wondered if the older man would strike him.
“You interrupted my day, entered my chambers… only to insult me?!” the Kionel roared.
“No, sir,” Roberts replied, holding onto his civility with both hands. “I came here to tell you the truth. That’s the only way any of this will work.”
Suddenly, the Kionel straightened and stepped back, his anger evaporating over a span of breaths.
“Honesty,” the Kionel finally said, his voice returning to its mellifluous calm. “Conviction. Courage. I was beginning to wonder if your people had those qualities.”
“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t,” Roberts retorted, once again without thinking. Damn it! Roberts thought. I need to get my mouth checked!
The Kionel chortled, and the tiniest of smiles pulled at one corner of his lips. “Indeed,” he said. He sat carefully behind his desk and appraised Roberts. “You realize that your friends in the media will not like this answer.” He pointed discreetly at one of the many cameras in the chamber.
“My job is to create an understanding between our two peoples,” Roberts said matter-of-factly. “It’s not to kowtow to your reporters.”
“They’ll see that answer as arrogant,” the Kionel challenged.
“I honestly don’t care,” Roberts replied. The Kionel shifted his head as he assessed the Terran officer but said nothing else. “What you and I must do here, sir, is hard. Anybody who thinks otherwise is a fool.”
The Kionel smiled. “Quite right.” He straightened and nodded at his timepiece. “And your time is up, Commander. We will resume our discussion tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Roberts replied. He bowed his head, took one step back, performed a crisp about-face, and strode back to the elevator.
Nashita greeted Roberts as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. He knew in an instant that he’d made her day worse. Though she was dressed professionally, her makeup was non-existent, her hair pulled into a simple bun. She approached Roberts slowly, her mouth tight, her eyes wide.
“I know,” Roberts began, raising his hands in a mea culpa. “I ruined your day. I’m sorry about—”
Roberts didn’t get a chance to finish. Nashita rushed to him and folded him into a hug. Roberts didn’t dare reciprocate—too many years of harassment training made that an impossibility—so he stood bolt upright, his hands out to either side like a scarecrow. The H’Tanzian woman squeezed his neck undeterred, and Roberts realized with a start that she was shaking.
“Oh, no,” Roberts finally managed, doing his best to ignore the press of her body against his. “Is it really that bad?”
Nashita laughed, then backed away. “Sorry,” she managed. “It’s just…” she struggled to find the words. “I don’t think anybody has ever spoken to him like that.”
“Yeah,” Roberts replied, drawing the word out. “My brain and my mouth aren’t on speaking terms.”
Nashita shot him a look as if he’d gone insane. “Are you kidding?” When Roberts stared back at her, confused, she laughed. “You’re the lead on every station right now. It’s all anyone can talk about!”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not here to please your media,” Roberts reminded her.
“I know, I know,” Nashita replied, her old spunk returning. “And you’re right. That isn’t your job,” she grinned. “It’s mine.”
Roberts frowned. “Are you sure you’re up to this? This is probably gonna get a lot harder before it gets better.”
Nashita’s grin only grew wider. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”
Roberts nodded, and for the second time that day he found himself intensely aware of how she smelled. He turned, coughed, and nodded. “Okay,” he finally managed. “Good. So, what else is on the agenda?”
Nashita nodded, her smile affixed to her features. “Glad you asked,” she replied. Nashita held up her clipboard and briefed him on the rest of his day.
23
Tenastan Early Warning Center
Secure Briefing Room
Leonathier, Tenasta
16 Sardua 1066
“Fifteen?” Avindair asked, shocked. He stood in the TEWC’s secure briefing room, his afternoon cup of tea rapidly cooling on the polished wooden table that dominated the space.
“At least,” Elaq replied, his dark features illuminated by the glow of the reflective screen looming over one side of the room. He raised the slide projector’s corded remote in his hand and cycled forward, its slide barrel offering a plastic ka-chunk with every click. “Here’s one from three months ago.”
Avindair turned towards the screen and squinted at the projected image. A rolling field—its long, golden grass and scattered boulders marking the location as H’Tanzia—dominated the frame, while in the distance a thin, silver object was caught streaking above the tree line.
“Could be anything,” Avindair observed, unimpressed.
“Usually, I’d agree,” Elaq responded. He cycled forward again. “This is five months ago.”
The image shifted to a shot from a pleasure vessel off the coast of Lorazalaka, the Kalinteli capital. The sky hunkered down in a solid gray overcast, the concrete blocks of identical apartment buildings standing in mute testament to Kalintel’s authoritarian regime. It was an image Avindair had seen hundreds of times, with one notable exception: a thin, silver object rushed below the clouds near the coastline, its shape a barely discernible blur.
Elaq pressed the remote button. Ka-chunk! “Seven months ago,” Elaq intoned.
The next image was out the window of a Celenti boarding house, the charming coastal town waking under a warm golden sun. There, caught just above the ocean’s waves, was the same thin, silver object.
Ka-chunk! “Eight months ago.”
A ferry loaded with automobiles, its red and white paint chipped from use, heaved towards a pier in Aiten. H’Tanzian dockworkers in headdresses and flowing robes were caught mid-step as they rushed to tie the vessel down. There, low to the water, a thin, silver object glittered in the broken overcast of the mid-morning sun, its shape unidentifiable due to its motion.
Ka-chunk! “Ten months—” Elaq began.
“Enough,” Avindair interrupted. “Are they all like this?”
Elaq nodded. “Most reports are rural, but they’re all low altitude, all quick, and all take place in the early morning hours.”
Avindair stared up at yet another shot of a thin, silver object streaking past a mountain Tenali, its residents blissfully unaware of the vehicle near their homes. Moving with impunity, he thought. And we’ve been completely unaware of them.
“How long have we been getting these reports?” Avindair pressed.
Elaq turned to him and raised one eyebrow. “How long do you think?”
Avindair frowned back at the last image. The curved form of the object and its polished surface was clearer there than in any others. Damn it, Avindair thought. If I’d known…
“How was this missed?” he snapped.
Elaq shot him a hard look, undaunted by the Commandant’s tone. “We get reports of nonsense all the time. Most of them are just planes, or birds, or even things we’re doing that people shouldn’t see.” He cycled back a dozen slides and pulled up the much-publicized image of Hyperion. “How were we supposed to know we had that above us the entire time?”
Hiding in plain damned sight, Avindair thought. “Any luck on the farmers?”
Elaq opened his mouth to reply, but Avindair’s communicator hissed to life, interrupting them both.
“Lion, Leopard,” Jagrav’s voice rose from the communicator.
Avindair held up one finger in a “wait” gesture to Elaq and raised his communicator to his mouth. “Leopard, Lion, go.”
“Makrinada would like to see you in the store,” Jagrav replied. “Right away,” he added quickly.
Avindair smiled. Makrinada, an old Tenastan word for flower, was Adelisa’s codename. “The store'' referred to her quarters. “On my way,” he replied.
Jagrav responded with two quick microphone clicks.
“We haven’t had luck with the farmers yet,” Elaq admitted as Avindair hooked his communicator back on his belt.
“Keep digging,” Avindair replied, heading towards the briefing room’s secure door.
“Don’t worry,” Elaq called out as the door closed behind him. “We will.”
Avindair had barely entered the Kionel’s palace foyer before Siva Dayati was on him, an insincere smile plastered across her face.
“Commandant, so good to see you!” Siva said, completely unsurprised.
Avindair snorted, disgusted. Time to rotate the communication codes, he grumbled to himself. They’ve cracked this one, too.
“Another big day, isn’t it?” Siva added, her considerable charms pushed to their full effect.
Avindair didn’t acknowledge her, but instead strode towards the secure corridor entrance that led to Adelisa. Siva, however, remained undeterred.
“Can I get a comment from you, Commandant?” Siva called out, her high heels beating twice for every one of his strides.
Comment? Avindair wondered. Why…? Then, before her could quash it, he groaned. The Terran, he grumbled to himself. What has he done now?
Siva laughed, the sound a rain of crystal bullets on steel. “You have heard,” she pressed. “Any comment? Even off the record?”
Avindair reached the entrance to the secure corridor and offered his ID to the waiting guard.
“Nothing is ever off the record with you,” Avindair replied. He turned on his heel and walked away before Siva could speak.
“Can I quote you on that?” Siva called out after him, a laugh in her voice.
Avindair expected to see Adelisa settling in for the evening, a glass of mewtla in one hand, the controls to her vid screen in the other. Instead, he found her seated in front of a harried young makeup artist, a protective paper bib spread around the top of her white blouse. Her hair had been styled into a cascade of curls down her back, while her black dress shoes had been polished to a mirror’s shine.
“Going somewhere?” Avindair asked, surprised.
“Out,” Adelisa replied, keeping her face as still as possible for her makeup artist. “I’m taking the Terran into Leonathier so he can meet more than just the Kionel’s staff.” She paused briefly as the artists adjusted her lipstick. “We need to show him normal people.”
“Hard to do with you there,” Avindair replied, his mood lightening. There are worse ways to spend an evening, he thought, even if I have to share her with the Terran.
“We have to start somewhere,” Adelisa agreed. The makeup artist finished, offering her a quick review of the job, then gathered up her tools to leave.
“Indeed,” Avindair agreed, smiling. “If you’ll give me a few minutes I can change into my ceremonials to accompany you.”
Adelisa didn't reply. Instead, she watched as the makeup artist finished packing her gear and waited until she’d left the room. It was only when the door clicked shut that she turned to Avindair.
“You’re not going,” Adelisa said.
Avindair didn’t want to feel the kick to his lungs, didn’t want to feel his heart squeezed, but both sensations hit him as if he’d been shot in the chest.
Adelisa’s features softened. “I’m having Jagrav head up the detail today,” she continued.
Avindair took in a deep breath. “May I ask why?” he managed, his voice a barrel rolling over gravel.
Adelisa took one step, and the smell of her perfume washed over him. She reached up and gently caressed his right cheek, a strained smile on her face.
“Because you’ll distract me,” she said.
Avindair met her eyes and his heart lurched. Duty first, his mind spat out as it had throughout his career. Not family, not desires, duty. He set his jaw, and finally managed a silent nod.
Adelisa’s smile brightened, and his heart sang. “Thank you,” she said. With that she was gone, the door closing behind her.
Avindair didn’t mean to sit on her bed. All he knew was one moment he was on his feet, the sound of her heels beating a steady cadence away from him in the hallway, and the next he was on her bed, his chest constricting as if he were bound by ropes.
“I think you do.”
The Kionel’s voice floated into his mind and he shut his eyes against the memory. Duty first, he repeated to himself, over and over again. Eventually his heart slowed, and when he opened his eyes, he’d regained a modicum of control.
It’s her duty, Avindair told himself. She has her role, and I have mine.
Avindair’s mind flashed to images of the Terran making Adelisa laugh, of her eyes sparkling at the stranger in a way he’d only seen directed at him. That they were all affectations for the voracious media didn’t matter. All he could see was the woman who made his heart sing glowing at another man—and he wanted to scream.
“Damned fool,” he muttered. He's just a man, Avindair thought. Even if he’s a Terran, he’s just a man.
Avindair stood and straightened his uniform. And I need to learn more about him.
Adelisa’s door closed behind him; his mind already focused on the images he’d seen in the TEWC.
24
Black Facility
Kalintel
“Wake up.”
Gishkim frowned. Every inch of his body hurt, and his mouth tasted metallic. His head pounded. He felt like a puppet with its strings cut. Whatever got him, Gishkim realized, was not the sort of thing he could walk off.
“Wake UP!”
That voice again. Loud. Male. Familiar. He opened one eye, curious to see who it was, but not terribly happy at the prospect of finding out the answer.
CAA Macika sat across from him again. The room was different now. Bigger. One wall was all mirrors (one-way glass, of course) while harsh light was directed towards him. Gishkim moved to wipe his eyes and was surprised to find his hands bound to the table by chains.
This, Gishkim realized, was bad. Really bad.
“Good,” Macika grumbled. His voice sounded funny, like something had happened to his throat.
Gishkim suddenly
remembered what he’d done, and he chuckled. Yeah, things were bad, but hearing the CA agent’s damaged throat made it worth it.
“You think this is funny?” Macika’s voice sounded as if it originated from the bottom of a long plastic tube, and Gishkim chuckled again.
Macika leaned over the table, his bloodshot eyes filled with rage. “We have you on the murder of a state administrator and the attempted murder of a Central Authority Agent. There is nothing here to laugh about.”
“O-only th-the l-look on y-y-your face,” Gishkim answered, then laughed louder.
Macika raised his hand to strike but a voice called out, “NO!”
Gishkim’s laughter stopped abruptly. That voice. He knew that voice.
Macika glowered down at Gishkim. “You’re lucky.” Then walked out, grumbling the entire time.
Gishkim barely noticed. That voice. Not that voice.
“Hey, Gish.”
Gishkim’s heart sank. No. Please, no.
Dasa stepped past him, a polished black briefcase in her gloved hand, and sat across from him at the table. She had dyed her hair black, her free-spirited makeup replaced by the severe look of CA agents everywhere. Even her body looked different, the harsh lines of her Central Authority Agent uniform making her seem stockier than the woman he’d come to know.
“This has to be a shock,” Dasa said, her tone all business.
Gishkim just stared at her. The door code. Kawin in his office. Even Macika. All of it a test. But for what?
“I’m sorry I lied,” Dasa said, her voice devoid of emotion, “but we had to make sure you were up to the task.”
Gishkim just stared at her. He realized that the woman he’d known didn’t exist. Nothing he’d experienced with her—her friendship, her touch, her love—none of it was real. At that moment, Gishkim was ready to die.