Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  “Speak plainly next time,” Adelisa admonished Roberts. “Your idioms only confuse people.”

  “Nashita doesn’t seem to mind.” The words were out of Roberts’ mouth before he realized it.

  “Nashita is easily influenced,” Adelisa warned. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t fill her mind with wild ideas.”

  Heat bubbled in Roberts’ chest, but he forced himself to take a slow breath.

  “Nashita is a grown woman,” Roberts slowly replied. “She’s free to think for herself.”

  Adelisa’s anger simmered visibly as she broke eye contact, busying herself as she slid her plastic-covered menu between a pair of spices and a box of napkins.

  Another fine round of diplomacy, Roberts thought, turning to look out of the window, embarrassed. At least this time it wasn’t caught on camera.

  Roberts took in the well-traveled street next to the diner. Another restaurant faced theirs across the narrow road, its entryway and windows decorated with hand-drawn spring flowers and sunbursts. Nadala Somfar, Roberts thought, the spring rebirth festival. His mood lightened a bit. That would be fun to see.

  The thought of Boucher’s fleet bearing down on them in T-Space killed any levity he felt, and Roberts blew out an exasperated sigh.

  Movement in one of the booths near the other restaurant’s window caught Roberts’ eye. Jagrav stared back at him, a cup of tea in one hand, his two-way radio communicator in the other. Across the table in Jagrav’s red leather booth sat a camera crew. They worried over their equipment and aimed their camera lenses, doing everything in their power to keep them both under surveillance.

  “They’re filming from across the street,” Roberts said, amazed. “They just never give up!”

  “Nor should they,” Adelisa replied, brushing grit off the top of the tablecloth. “Our citizens pay for the Kionel’s palace, our food, our clothes, everything. It’s their right to know where their money goes.”

  “Then why didn’t we bring them into here with us?” Roberts asked.

  Adelisa’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned and looked over her shoulder.

  “Pasik,” she called out in a voice far sweeter than her demeanor suggested, “is the food ready?”

  Pasik’s food was a carbohydrate bomb. A strange mix of a heavy white cream, potatoes, vegetables, and fish, it was simultaneously light and incredibly filling. Though Roberts didn’t much care for it—he’d never been one for fish—he ate a respectable portion while forcing a polite smile.

  His own smile was the only courtesy he encountered during the meal. He tried to engage Adelisa in conversation, but she steadfastly ignored him. Instead, she focused on carefully eating each forkful completely, leaving the utensil as clean as possible with each bite. When she finally did meet Roberts’ gaze, she eyed him like a rat caught in a trap.

  Eventually, Pasik cleared the table. After accepting Adelisa’s praise—which, to Roberts’ mind, far exceeded the meal’s merits—he grabbed both their plates and withdrew to his kitchen, never once offering another word to the Terran officer.

  “He’s scared of me,” Roberts realized.

  “You don’t come from this planet,” Adelisa replied. “How else did you expect him to act?”

  A little courtesy would be nice, Roberts thought, but instead said, “That makes sense.”

  A flash of light caught Roberts’ eye, and he looked back at the restaurant across the street. The camera crew in Jagrav’s booth had pressed their lens as close to the glass as possible, intent on capturing every moment of their meal together. Roberts fought the urge to make a face and instead focused on the decorations adorning the other restaurant.

  “Nadala Somfar,” Roberts said. He turned to Adelisa, a genuine smile on his face. “I watched a documentary about it. Reminds me of our vernal equinox festivals back home.”

  Adelisa’s cheeks flushed red. “Stop it,” she seethed, her voice breaking.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop showing us how much you know about us!”

  Roberts straightened, surprised at the raw emotion in her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “Really?” Adelisa challenged. She bent her head to one side, her poise collapsing. “Is that why you dominate every conversation with tales of my own culture? Is that why you insist on showing us how much you know about us? Or is it to remind us that we know almost nothing about you?”

  Heat crept past Roberts’ collar and he looked away. He found himself staring right into the camera lens pointed at him from across the street.

  Adelisa expelled a frustrated breath, then flung her napkin to the table. “Do you know why I brought you here?” Adelisa asked.

  It sure as hell wasn’t for the food, Roberts thought, but instead said, “I’d love to find out.”

  “I brought you here to show you that my people are terrified,” Adelisa declared. “They need to be reassured that you really do come in peace. They need to know that their way of life won’t change, but if it does, it will be for the better. What they don’t need is to be lectured about their own culture by some smug alien!”

  Roberts locked eyes with Adelisa. A part of him knew that he should smile and agree, that he should do whatever it took to placate her. He ignored that, however, and leaned towards the woman across the table, furious.

  “You think our knowledge of you is an insult?” Roberts began. “We’re amazed by you! We’ve traveled the stars for three hundred years and we’ve never—not once—found a world like this or a people like you.”

  “I’m sure we remind you of how far you’ve come,” Adelisa snarled mockingly.

  “You remind us of who we are,” Robert boomed. The couple in the far table turned and gaped, and a clatter of dropped cutlery arose from the kitchen, but Roberts ignored them both. “Your ambition, your drive, your pettiness, your deceit, all of it. You’re gloriously, painfully human.” He gestured around the restaurant, laughing. “Yes, you remind us of where we came from, but you also inspire us. You remind us all that we’re builders, engineers, poets and artists, no matter where you put us.”

  “Says the man who showed up in a spaceship,” Adelisa replied curtly.

  “So what?!” Roberts yelled. Adelisa’s eyes widened. “Yeah, we have better technology. Yeah, we travel the stars. None of that matters when you compare it to the fact that we’re related. You and I, born hundreds of light years apart, both of us are still human. That’s nothing short of a miracle!”

  “Why?!” Adelisa pressed contemptuously. “Why does the fact that we’re both human mean so much?”

  “Because you’re the only other humans we’ve ever met!” Roberts roared.

  Adelisa rocked back, her mouth falling open.

  “We’ve met so many races since we started traveling the black,” Roberts continued. “The diversity of life is…” he struggled with the word, “... astonishing. But none of them—not one—has been us.”

  Adelisa didn’t speak. Instead, she looked at him with eyes widened by terror. A glance at the older couple in the corner booth showed her fear echoed in their faces.

  So much for leading up to that revelation, Roberts thought. He carefully folded his napkin onto the table in front of him.

  “If our passion to know you better—to extend a hand in friendship—is offensive to you, then I’m sorry, Adishta,” Roberts did his best to keep his temper under control, but his voice still shook with unexpressed rage. “But I won’t apologize. You…” he turned and faced the couple cowering in the corner booth, “... all of you are too rare a wonder for us to ignore.”

  Roberts stood, slid his chair carefully back, and placed it under the table. He turned to the couple sitting by the kitchen doors and waved.

  “Hope you enjoyed the show!” he said cheerfully.

  Roberts didn’t wait for Adelisa to reply. Instead, he turned and strode out of the diner, leaving Adelisa gaping at him from their table.
r />   26

  T.S.S. Hyperion

  Briefing Bay One

  Phelspharia Orbit

  21 December 2356

  0545

  “This couldn’t have waited two hours?” Roberts asked. He wiped sleep from his eyes as he stared into the holoplates of his wristcom, his face framed by a halo of sleep-twisted hair.

  Roberts looked like hell, even in hologram form. Conrad knew it was early morning for him on the planet, but the captain’s orders had been clear: get Roberts and his staff together immediately to “figure out what the hell we need to do to make these people trust us”. That shipboard morning came several hours earlier than the Tenastan clock was entirely out of Conrad’s control.

  “Sorry about this,” Conrad answered sympathetically before he sipped his coffee. “Captain says we have to come up with a new strategy right away.”

  Roberts closed his eyes and sighed. “Is this about the dinner?”

  “What do you think?” Conrad asked. Though the details were sketchy, reports had exploded across the Tenastan media of a “major disagreement” between Roberts and the Kionel’s granddaughter. With no real news to report, talking heads had engaged in a conjecture feeding frenzy. While none of what they suggested sounded even vaguely plausible—one claiming that Roberts had revealed “hidden alien powers”—it had nevertheless done nothing to forge a closer relationship.

  “Nothing is easy with these people,” Okoro managed, slumped over the briefing room table, one hand shielding half-closed eyes.

  “And they seem to like it like that,” Malley opined. She, too, was worn down, her red hair barely contained in a ragged bun at the back of her head.

  “So, what would you do differently, Chief?” Conrad prompted.

  Okoro blinked. “Me?”

  Conrad replied with a steady stare.

  Okoro sniffed, then straightened. “I’d go back to basics.”

  Conrad frowned. “Explain.”

  Okoro opened his data pad and flipped a series of images onto the holotank above the table: carved tombs, etched symbols—either of the lion and star motif, or the ever-present images of the nine stars of the first Kionel’s arrival.

  “I think we screwed up when we first got here,” Okoro declared, stifling a yawn. “We got too excited about how much the Phelspharians are like us. Made us look right past the fact that they’re not us.”

  “You think addressing their culture is the key?” Conrad asked.

  Okoro swayed his head from side-to-side, his face contorted with thought. “I would if we understood their cultures,” he said. He spread his long fingers into a half-hearted surrender move. “Right now, we don’t.”

  “Except for their commercialism, economic drive, and veneration of their military, you mean,” Conrad challenged.

  Okoro shook his head. “See, that’s now. But before this,” he traced an invisible circle around his body, “before they really embraced science, they had deep, deep mystical traditions.”

  “We’re not going to solve this by chanting and smooching trees,” Conrad scoffed.

  “We might,” Malley interjected.

  Conrad and Okoro both turned to Malley. She sat upright, her fatigue-reddened eyes glistening in the blue and amber glow of the holo emitter.

  “Excuse me?” Conrad asked.

  Malley looked at each person in turn, her voice steady. “Okoro’s right. Their traditions are important.” Her voice hardened. “But we don’t need to go that deep. We just need to focus on one thing.”

  “And what’s that?” Conrad asked.

  “The Kionel,” Malley replied.

  Conrad blew out an exasperated sigh, and Okoro placed his face into his palm. “I am so sick of that smug bastard,” Conrad grumbled, frustrated. He shot a withering stare at Malley. “I think we know enough about him already.”

  “No.” Malley replied, her voice firm. “We don’t.”

  “Explain,” Roberts said. He leaned towards his holoplates; his eyes locked on Malley.

  “How does one man become an entire world’s mediator?” Malley asked. “What kind of tradition leads to a person who can openly insult world leaders with no fear of retribution?”

  “Any tradition, given enough time, becomes its own motivation,” Roberts replied.

  “No, that’s not it,” Malley answered. “Remember, before the captain re-tasked me to study their hidden comms, you had me digging up as much about the Kionelaite history as I could.”

  “I remember,” Roberts said. “Wondered why you didn’t finish it. They have museums dedicated to the Kionelaite line on all three continents. Should have taken you a couple of days at most.”

  Malley nodded her head so vigorously that loose threads of red hair tumbled down her forehead.

  “See, that’s what I thought, too,” she said. “And that was my first clue.”

  Conrad and Okoro both shared a look, then focused on Malley. “Clue to what?” Conrad asked.

  Malley flung images from her own wristcom to the holotank, revealing the various Kionelaite museums around the planet. Once again, Conrad was stunned at their similarities to old Terran buildings. Brightly lit hallways led to captioned exhibits, artful banners identifying each room’s part in the Kionel’s story.

  “They’re museums,” Conrad said. “So?”

  “No, they’re not,” Malley answered. “They’re propaganda centers. Stories of Kionel Blah-Blah the First, and Who Cares the Fifth. Sure, you might see a piece of armor that some Kionel wore way back when, or a desk, or even a pair of pants—but that’s all. That’s everything they’re willing to show about their revered Kionelaite.”

  “Religions have been built on less,” Okoro said.

  “Yes,” Malley agreed, “but they used to have more. A lot more.” She turned towards Roberts, red-rimmed eyes brightening. “Sir, you remember the stories of their relics?”

  Roberts nodded slowly. “The big three, yeah,” he said. “The first Kionel’s blade, the…” he trailed off.

  “… the tablet of his own words…” Okoro added, nodding towards Malley.

  “... and a piece of his handwriting,” Malley finished excitedly.

  Roberts sat back, frowning. “I thought those were all myths.”

  Malley grinned. “They’re not.”

  Okoro turned to Malley, stunned, but Roberts’ eyes only narrowed. “What’s your evidence?”

  Malley smiled, and her fingers flashed over her holokeyboard. Old woodcuts, drawings, and a faded photograph surrounded her head. Pointing at a woodcut of a crowd of men surrounding a bedecked wagon, Malley continued. “That is an image of the first Kionel’s blade when it was transported to Tenasta about thirty-three PKE.”

  “PKE?” Conrad asked.

  “Phelspharian Kionelaite Era,” Okoro answered. “Designated when the Kalinteli, H’Tanzians, and Tenastans synced their calendars after the great diaspora in…”

  Conrad stared at Okoro, non-plussed.

  “... and that really doesn’t matter now, does it?” Okoro finished, lowering his gaze, embarrassed.

  Malley searched through her data pad and swiped another image into the tank. An antiquated newspaper filled the air, its cover dominated by an intricate illustration. It displayed a broken stone tablet covered in early runic Tenastan, the headline proudly proclaiming, “In His Own Words!” “That’s an excellent depiction of the first Kionel’s recorded words from the tablet’s travels to Tenasta a little over three hundred years ago.”

  She gestured again. A blurry photograph of a torn sheet of age-browned paper replaced the newspaper—replete with ghostly lines of handwritten text, resting in a clean, glass-covered frame. “And this is a photograph that was smuggled out of the palace two years ago.” She practically bounced in her seat with excitement. “It shows one of the first Kionel’s handwritten notes.”

  “I appreciate your work here,” Conrad growled, “but how does this help us?”

  “Don’t you see?” Malley aske
d, her hands spread wide. “They’re hiding something!” She flung an ancient map with hand-drawn trade lines onto the holo emitter. Each route began in various parts of H’Tanzia or Kalintel, but every one of them terminated at the Kionel’s palace.

  “Six hundred years ago the sitting Kionel asked that all relics of the first Kionel be handed over to the Kionelaite for study.” Malley explained the image like a first-year teacher tackling her favorite subject. “And people did.” She gestured to the map behind her. “Since then, anything that even smells like the first Kionel farted on it has been hauled to the palace, catalogued, and forgotten.”

  Conrad stared at Malley and blinked, utterly lost.

  “Don’t you get it?” Malley asked, glancing around the table, frustrated. “The Kionelaite is burying its history!”

  Roberts rocked back, shocked. Okoro straightened, then shook his head. He looked up at the images on the holo emitter, then at Malley, and his mouth dropped open.

  “Holy shit,” Okoro finally said.

  “What am I missing here, people?” Conrad asked. “Remember, you’re speaking to a command officer. Use small words.”

  “We accept the Kionel as their great communicator because that’s what they say he is,” Malley said. “But what if it turns out that the Kionelaite is nothing more than institutionalized cronyism? What if it’s a way to keep Tenasta in its own financial bubble at the expense of H’Tanzia? Or to keep hostilities up with Kalintel, making sure that both countries have defense industries to keep their economies strong?”

  “Wait,” Conrad asked, surprised. “We don’t already know that?”

  “How could we?” Malley replied. “All we have is their propaganda. Anything else isn’t just hidden, it’s buried.”

  “They’re lying to us,” Roberts said, his words almost too quiet to hear.

  Conrad’s head swam. Did we go to the wrong place for first contact? he wondered. Were we really so easily duped?

  “Okay,” Conrad asked carefully. “But how does this help us?”

  Roberts shot an impatient look at Conrad.