Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  Dasa opened her briefcase and retrieved a number of files. She flipped through them, then dumped two photographs on the table in front of him.

  “Do these look familiar?” Dasa asked.

  Gishkim didn’t want to look. He wondered if he had any chance of lifting this table from the ground, but a quick glance at the legs revealed that it was bolted to the floor.

  “Please,” Dasa pressed, all business, “look at the pictures.”

  Gishkim shot Dasa a darkly furious look.

  “Please, Associate,” Dasa repeated, emotionless.

  Gishkim looked down at the table, if only to tear his eyes from Dasa. Two pictures gleamed under the interrogation room lights. The first he recognized immediately. It showed the bodies of the Kalinteli Special Forces unit he’d killed in the early days of the Nirneta Conflict.

  “I killed those men,” Gishkim said flatly.

  “I know,” Dasa said. “Without weapons, without thought. That’s how we first learned about you.”

  Gishkim shot Dasa a surprised look and she smiled. The expression was chilling. “We’ve been watching you for a long time. Nearly lost you when you went dark after the drawdown, but we got lucky with one of our recruitment centers.” She nodded at the table, and for an instant her eyes sparkled. “But I think you’ll find the second picture more compelling.”

  Gishkim glared at Dasa, then looked down at the next photograph. For a moment he didn’t understand what he was staring at. Just a tablet in a display case, framed on either side by a piece of armor and a shield, while behind it was…

  Gishkim went cold and he looked at Dasa, his eyes wide. She smiled at him again, but this time it was as the woman he knew from their time together.

  “Yes,” Dasa said, “it is.”

  Gishkim looked back down at the image. What he was looking at couldn’t be real. The thin grip, covered in multi-colored thread, the wide golden blade, its surface etched with indecipherable markings.

  “His b-b-blade…” Gishkim whispered. Chills rushed through his body and he realized that he was crying.

  “And the tablet,” Dasa answered.

  Gishkim locked eyes with Dasa. “T-tell me this isn’t a l-l-l—”

  “It’s true, all of it,” Dasa reassured him. Her face suddenly fell, her eyes growing haunted. “All of it.”

  All of it.

  The chills that passed through Gishkim’s body became trembles of fear. Gishkim looked back at the image. “W-where?”

  “The palace,” Dasa spat. “The Kionel,” she added with a snarl.

  Real. All of it.

  Gishkim shook in his seat, terrified.

  “We’re standing on a blade’s edge, Gish,” Dasa said. “More than anyone else, you and I know what their arrival means. We’re on a countdown to the end of the world and we need your help to stop it.”

  The story was true. Not the tales he’d loved as a child, but the darkness behind them. The truth that had driven men mad. Now Dasa needed him to help save the world.

  Gishkim looked at Dasa and sighed. “W-what do you n-n-need me to d-d-do?”

  Dasa smiled and Gishkim was surprised to see tears well in her eyes. She composed herself, then reached into her briefcase again. She withdrew a folder and placed it on the table in front of him.

  “You should know that we’re not alone in this fight,” Dasa said. “We have friends everywhere, including the palace.”

  Gishkim leaned across the table, his voice suddenly steel.

  “What do you need me to do,” Gishkim pressed.

  Dasa nodded, her expression one of cold approval. “What you were made to do,” she answered. With that she opened the folder, revealing a glossy photo within.

  Gishkim immediately recognized the features that stared back at him. How could he not? From her full lips to her cascading honey-colored hair to the fierce golden eyes, hers was one of the most recognizable faces on the planet.

  “She’s a friend of the Aditali,” Dasa continued. “We have to show the world that this won’t be tolerated.”

  “Y-you can n-never g-get to h-her,” Gishkim said. “She’s g-guarded day and n-night.”

  “We know.” A cold smile spread across Dasa’s features. “But we have an opportunity.”

  Gishkim looked down at the woman on the page. He knew he couldn’t go back to the life the Kalinteli government had given him; they’d made sure of that. But he realized with a start that he didn’t want it either. He’d spent the last three years marking time, drinking himself to an early grave like Vyzia. This, though, this was something else.

  This was purpose.

  Gishkim nodded at the picture of Adishta Adelisa Urmah.

  “When do I leave?”

  Dasa just smiled.

  25

  Kionel’s Palace Gates

  Leonathier, Tenasta

  16 Sardua 1066

  The protesters surrounded Adelisa’s personal transport the moment it cleared the palace gates. One minute Roberts and Adelisa glided down an immaculately maintained road, and the next the vehicle made a hard left onto sun-faded pavement awash in a sinus discharge of tar patches.

  A hard smack pounded against Roberts’ passenger window. Surprised, he turned to find the hate-filled scowl of a bearded man by his window, a hastily assembled placard over one shoulder. Roberts instinctively reached down to where his holster should have been, only to find his bare thigh. He wondered again if he should have retrieved his sidearm from the ship’s boat before he’d entered the vehicle.

  “The windows are bullet proof,” Adelisa said, her tone one of utter boredom. She waved at the protesters, offering them a facsimile of a concerned smile. “You’re perfectly safe.”

  Roberts shot an incredulous look at Adelisa sitting opposite him on the supple leather seats. The early evening sun painted the lavish passenger cabin gold and glittered across a squadron of neatly stored, cut crystal tumblers.

  “There are more of them than us, you know.”

  Adelisa offered him an indifferent stare. “Do you really think I’m not aware?”

  Roberts looked away, chagrined. Got any more bright observations? he thought.

  Another slap on the transport, this time along its metal doors, focused Roberts’ attention. He looked out over the throng of protesters spread along the Kionel’s palace walls. Far from the immaculately dressed staff of the palace, they reminded him of Terran colonists on any of the hardscrabble terraforming worlds that the Union funded. While some wore brightly colored shorts and undershirts, replete with baffling, printed imagery, most were adorned in faded canvas pants, worn shoes, and threadbare tops. The military haircuts of the Kionel’s guard gave way to manes of all lengths and colors. Some proudly wore artificial hues of blue, pink, and purple, while others allowed their natural tones to dominate the fraying edges of once-proud coifs. The crowd was awash with individualism, united only by their anger directed towards Adelisa’s vehicle.

  The forest of signs that greeted Roberts as their driver eased past the protesters was nothing new. There was the by-now familiar image of Hyperion with a red slash through it, as well as the oft-repeated “Tenastans Not Terrans!” demand, but a few new ones caught his eye. One featured a starving H’Tanzian girl, her eyes swollen with tears, pleading with the viewer to “Feed Me, Not Strangers”. Another offered a grotesque caricature of the Kionel pulling world leaders’ strings, the phrase “Leaders Not Rulers!” etched above the image in angry red letters.

  And then, just as before, Roberts spotted the “Aditali” sign.

  The person holding the sign was unlike the rest. A diminutive man whose lineage would have easily been sub-Saharan African had he been on Terra, he was clothed in bright saffron robes with deep crimson accents. His head had been shaved clean, as were his exposed limbs. He held up a sign that showed Phelspharia aflame; the word “Aditali” formed from the fire and smoke. When the man locked eyes with Roberts, the Terran officer looked away, uncomfortable.


  “I suppose your world is beyond things like this.” Adelisa sized up Roberts, expressionless.

  A flashbulb memory from one of Gant’s first contact twodees filled Roberts’ thoughts. The grainy, time-worn video had shown a wall of bodies surging towards Gant’s slowly traveling caravan on an old New York City street. The crowd was furious, pounding the vehicles with any weapon they could find. The scene ended abruptly in an explosion of white smoke, screams, and an eruption of gunfire. Roberts didn’t share this, of course. Instead, he offered Adelisa as much of a smile as he could muster.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Really?” Adelisa asked, unconvinced.

  Roberts nodded. “Really.” He leaned towards her, doing everything in his power to reach through her defensive wall. “We’re more alike than you realize,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice neutral.

  “Is that so?” Adelisa challenged. She jammed a finger towards her passenger window like a Roman Centurion wielding a gladius. “Do you know why they’re out there?” She dropped her finger and sat back, her posture that of a queen on a throne. “They’re frightened. You changed their world and challenged every one of their beliefs.” She turned away from him, her face an icy mask. “How did you expect them to act?”

  “This is my colony!” Governor Cook yelled, his voice broadcast across Boucher’s Defense Force’s common frequency. “You do not have permission to land on Golden’s Hold and you are not welcome!”

  The memory hit Roberts like a punch to the gut and he sagged back in his seat. He turned to look out the window again, but he didn’t notice the crowd outside. Instead, all he saw were the flames of his ejection seat and the muddy field and limbs falling like rain and he wondered for a moment if he was going to throw up.

  “Commander?” Adelisa prompted harshly.

  Roberts closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, then opened them again. When he turned back to her, he offered Adelisa a thin, spiritless smile.

  “I expected them to act like this,” he admitted.

  “Then why did you land?” Adelisa challenged, her eyes narrowing. “Was it because we discovered you?”

  Of course! Roberts thought, fighting the urge to blurt the words aloud. We should have had at least another six months to prep the crew, to understand your politics, to help you with the way your world would change, but we didn’t. And that’s on us, not you.

  Roberts didn’t say that, of course. Instead, he just turned and looked back out of the tinted transport windows.

  The vehicle suddenly lurched forward. The crystal tumblers that lined the sides of the vehicle’s cabin tinkled a chaotic tune. The transport accelerated then, and the protesters disappeared behind them.

  “Well?” Adelisa pressed.

  Roberts didn’t answer. He just focused on the alien city as it slid by his passenger window.

  The next time Roberts and Adelisa spoke, it was about a man with a cold.

  Once the transport had cleared the protesters and merged onto the larger, multilane roadways, Roberts was able to study the landscape of Leonathier in a way he had only dreamed about weeks before. The similarities to late twentieth century Western culture architecture were noteworthy. Much like old Europe, the city’s ancient foot-trafficked roadways had been expanded into a carefully planned grid of commercial and residential spaces. But on closer inspection, the differences were more striking. A surprising number of buildings were built on cylindrical bases, their roofs highly peaked to help clear the winter snows. Windows everywhere were larger, wider, and more invasive than what he’d known on Terra, offering both businesses and homeowners far less privacy than would be accepted on his native soil. Lastly, old growth trees were carefully protected, often requiring the transport to veer uncomfortably as the road wound around them. Seeing the city at ground level made one thing clear: while the billboards, traffic lights, signs, and street layout might have all felt like an uncanny throwback to another era, Leonathier was not a place he could find on Terra.

  Eventually, the transport eased off the multilane road system and into the steel and concrete canyons created by Leonathier’s skyscrapers. Uninterrupted movement gave way to stop-and-start traffic; Adelisa’s transport no more immune to the city’s traffic laws than anyone else. Roberts marveled at seeing small storefronts, replete with awnings of all colors, thriving at the lowest levels of the taller buildings. While he’d seen twodees of places like that from the pre-Gant era, the closest he’d been to one himself had been low-level cross-country flights during his academy pilot training. Small towns in more rural areas still supported a few independent shops, but in the larger metro areas they had all gone the way of the Deinosuchus.

  The door of one shop swung open, and a young man dressed in gray pants and a shiny windbreaker stepped out. A small paper bag in one hand, he clutched a wad of white papers in the other, his nose bright red and his eyes puffy.

  Roberts frowned, and he leaned forward, fascinated. Are the papers a gift? he thought. Are they some sort of origami?

  The man abruptly stopped, buried his nose in the paper, and unloaded his clogged sinuses with as much strength as he could muster.

  He’s sick! Roberts thought excitedly. Then, just as abruptly, he was glad for the steel and glass that separated him from the man outside.

  For the hundredth time since Roberts had received his pre-first contact boosters, he remembered exactly how precarious the entire situation really was. Yes, he’d been inoculated against native Phelspharian pathogens, and the swarm of short-lived nano-inhibitors in his body did their best to protect the locals against his Terran diseases, but there was still an element of chance. One unknown disease on either side of the equation could lead to a disaster the likes of which the planet had never seen.

  Which reminds me, he thought, grimacing as the sick man wiped away a mass of green mucus from his nose, I really need to get my transmission repressors boosted.

  “Don’t your people get sick?” Adelisa asked. After so many minutes of silence, her remark took him by surprise.

  Roberts turned to face her. Adelisa sat imperiously, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in his direction.

  “Not like that,” Roberts replied. “We’ve developed different ways to manage health.”

  “And you’ll share them with us?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “When you’re ready,” Roberts answered.

  “When will that be?” Adelisa probed, impatiently.

  Roberts sighed. What he wanted to answer was, When you’re under our protection. When we’ve updated your industry and educated your people with over a millennia’s worth of scientific advancement. Instead, he just turned to her and smiled.

  “When you’re ready,” he repeated.

  Adelisa turned away, disgusted. She didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive.

  The restaurant Adelisa took him to wasn’t what Roberts expected. Judging by Adelisa’s carefully crafted curls and silk dress, he’d been certain that she would take him to an upscale dining establishment, like the ones he’d seen in the local entertainment broadcasts. Instead, he found himself in a small diner tucked unassumingly into the ground floor of one of Leonathier’s skyscrapers. No lavish decorations greeted him. The tan walls of the darkly lit space were adorned with cheap reproductions of artwork he’d seen in the palace. The tables were a mix of pressed board and metal, with shabby linens that had seen better days. Even the candles were shoddy electric lights shaped into faux flames stuck haphazardly atop plastic bases. An enormous open serving window dominated the far wall, beyond which the battered metal appliances of the kitchen could be seen. Lastly, a placard on their table advertised the daily specials in misspelled Tenastan.

  Surprisingly, the diner wasn’t empty when they arrived. An older couple sat in a corner booth, fussing over their food. Like the protesters, their clothes were worn, their hair unkempt, their shoes scuffed and cracking. They both made a concerted effort to ignore Adelisa’
s and Roberts’ arrival, and turned away instantly when Roberts met their eyes.

  “Not what I expected,” Roberts admitted.

  “Why would it be?” Adelisa retorted.

  Roberts turned to her, annoyed despite himself. “I didn’t mean—” he started.

  He didn’t get to finish.

  A whippet-thin man exploded out of the large swinging doors next to the wall-length window and rushed past the older couple sitting nearby. He swept over to Adelisa’s and Roberts’ table with practiced grace and placed a bowl of flatbread and oil in front of them both.

  “Adishta,” the man said, bowing. “It’s been too long.”

  Adelisa’s face lit up and she placed a hand on his arm. “Pasik, you look wonderful.”

  Pasik grinned, the unshaven whiskers on his face shading the hollow of his cheeks. “Better to be seeing you again,” he replied. He turned to Roberts and his smile faltered.

  “Commander Roberts. I welcome you as well.” Neither Pasik’s demeanor nor his tone matched his words.

  “Thank you,” Roberts replied. He shot a quick glance around the restaurant. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

  Pasik’s smile evaporated, and his eyes flashed confusion. Adelisa shot Roberts a cautioning look but managed to direct a smile towards Pasik. “What he means is that he finds your establishment charming.”

  Pasik nodded, obviously unconvinced, then gestured nervously back to the kitchen. “May I start you with something to drink?”

  “I’ll order for the both of us,” Adelisa replied. Her eyes narrowed as she turned to Roberts. “Unless you have your own choices?”

  Roberts dipped his head deferentially. “No, order away.”

  Adelisa nodded, offered up her selections, and sent Pasik on his way, his stained handheld notepad covered in barely discernible pencil marks.