by A. L. Bruno
“I’ve been treated with fear,” Roberts replied carefully, “and I understand why.”
“That does not excuse it,” the Kionel said, his eyes flashing. He straightened. “We have many concerns about your people, Commander, but it belittles us both if we do not approach our issues with mutual respect. For that, I am forced to apologize.” The Kionel spoke the last words staring pointedly at his granddaughter.
Roberts bowed. “I don’t need one—” Roberts began.
“No.”
Adelisa’s word interrupted Roberts, and he, Avindair, and the Kionel all looked to her, surprised.
“Excuse me?” the Kionel asked. His tone was a tornado siren on a lonely farm.
Adelisa looked up and faced both the Kionel and Roberts with bloodshot eyes. Whether the red was caused by suppressed tears or lack of sleep Roberts couldn’t tell.
“It is not for you to apologize, Hikasa,” Adelisa said. “This is my doing, and I must take responsibility.” She faced Roberts and bowed her head. “I have treated you without respect,” she said. “I have insulted you in my home and questioned your purpose. I have not accepted you as you are but have fought against an enemy made in my own mind. For that, I offer my sincerest apologies.”
Avindair’s poise evaporated, and he shot Adelisa a stunned look. The Kionel straightened, a single eyebrow arching upwards.
“Will you accept?” Adelisa asked, her face fixed downward.
She’s just as terrified as the rest of them, Roberts realized. Except she doesn’t get to show it. He sighed, frustrated. And you’ve been too much of an idiot to notice.
“On one condition,” Roberts finally replied.
Avindair peered at Roberts like a bear spotting a coyote near its den, while the Kionel cocked his head quizzically.
“Anything, Ufadi,” Adelisa replied.
Roberts blinked, confused at the new word. Then the translation came to him: “Honored One”.
“Please don’t lower your head to me,” Roberts said. “I’m not anyone to be honored. I’m just a man doing his job. That’s all.”
Adelisa raised her head and locked her eyes with his. The familiar defiance was there, but Roberts thought he glimpsed the tiniest spark of thanks.
“Thank you, Ufad—” Adelisa caught herself. “Commander.” She lowered her gaze again, prompting Avindair to shoot another pointed look at Roberts. His cheeks flushed red, and Roberts realized that for the first time he was seeing the commandant angry.
“Good,” the Kionel said, turning to Avindair. “Commandant, please return the Adishta to her quarters. Then tell my aide to reschedule my meetings for the day.”
“We’re expecting a Kalinteli envoy,” Avindair replied, frowning. “This meeting has been scheduled for—”
“It can wait,” the Kionel interrupted, his voice hard. “You have your instructions.”
Avindair stiffened, his jaw clamping shut, and he bowed. “Your words, my will,” he said finally.
“Good,” the Kionel replied, mildly annoyed at the exchange. “You may go.”
Avindair straightened, then gestured for Roberts to follow.
“No,” the Kionel said. “The commander will stay.”
Avindair’s eyes widened, and for moment he remained rock still. Finally, he nodded again. “Hikasa,” he said through a tightened throat. With that Avindair and Adelisa were gone, the elevator door closing behind them.
“Now, Commander” the Kionel said, crossing back behind his desk. He sat carefully and steepled his fingers. “Let us talk.”
It was long past dinner before Roberts finally staggered back to Agrath’s Room. A quick glance into the antique mirror confirmed that both he and his uniform looked like Constantinople after the nukes, but it didn’t matter. The day he’d just spent had been worth it.
Roberts took off his service jacket and hung it carefully over one of his wooden hangers. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, removed his tie, and flopped back into Agrath’s chair. Finally, he closed his eyes, his mind reduced to a dull noise in his skull.
Nashita knocked at the door and pushed inside. Her entrance wasn’t unexpected, but neither was it unwelcome. She dashed in, a tray in one hand, a pot in the other. She set both down on the desk, and carefully retrieved a teacup she’d positioned between her arm and her body. “I don’t think it’ll smell too much like my pits,” she said. She sniffed at the cup experimentally, then recoiled. “No, I’m wrong.” She placed the cup gently onto the table. “Maybe you should just drink straight from the pot.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Roberts said tiredly, “but thank you.”
Nashita offered him a warm smile. “Neither of you ate all day,” she replied. She lifted the top off the tray, revealing scrambled eggs and fried bacon, both long cold. “I remembered you liked eggs.”
A warm glow shot through Roberts, and he cleared his throat nervously. “That’s very kind,” he managed. He stabbed at the eggs with his fork and downed them like a starving man.
“I don’t remember the last time he stayed with one person all day,” Nashita marveled. She sat on the bed next to Agrath’s desk, her lithe frame barely denting the mattress. “I think the last time was when I was a kid.”
Roberts swallowed the eggs, then grabbed the cup Nashita had brought him. He took a quick sniff and, as expected, her scent floated up from the cup. Rather than finding it off-putting, however, his torso once again filled with heat, and he grabbed the teapot like a sailor grasping at a lifeline.
“You’re really going to drink pit tea?” Nashita asked, horrified and amused in equal measure.
“Long day,” Roberts offered after a quick sip. “But I’d kill for a cup of coffee right about now.”
Nashita twisted her head, confused. “Coffee?” she repeated, experimenting with the unfamiliar word.
“Burnt berry bean water,” Roberts explained, stabbing at a slice of bacon. “Kind of like tea’s older, angrier brother.”
Nashita’s nose wrinkled. “Then why would you want to drink it?”
Roberts grinned. “Because it’s so good.”
Nashita laughed, then looked down, embarrassed. Roberts’ heart pumped a little harder and he turned back to his meal, his face flushed.
“Do you have coffee on your ship?” Nashita asked. She looked up at him, and her eyes sparkled.
Roberts smiled. “Yep.”
She tilted her head. “I’d like to try it.”
Roberts did his best not to trace the way her neck flowed into her shoulder and he nodded. “It’s a date.”
Nashita grinned. “Eat your eggs.”
Roberts’ wristcom buzzed like an angry hornet, and both he and Nashita jumped. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
The wristcom buzzed again, and Nashita stood. “Your ship?” she asked, still smiling.
Roberts nodded. “Who else?”
Nashita nodded, her chin low. “Run tomorrow morning?”
Roberts grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Then Nashita was gone, but not before she shot one more furtive glance over her shoulder.
“You spent all day with him,” Boothe marveled, her head and torso visible in the holo volume.
“Yes, ma’am,” Roberts replied. He eyed Nashita’s half-eaten meal and wondered how quickly he could get back to it.
“I’ll review the footage later,” Boothe said. “Just give me the main points now.”
Roberts opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then sat back with a shrug.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said.
Boothe frowned. “What does that mean, Commander?”
Roberts shrugged. “We just talked.”
“Talked?” Boothe challenged, mildly irritated. “About what?”
“Tell me about your childhood,” the Kionel had asked not long after Avindair and Adelisa had departed.
So, Roberts had. He talked about sailing with his father, first over the gentle Tahoe waves
, then through the chop of New Francisco’s bay. He told him about burning his hands on the ropes, and of freezing as the ocean sprayed into the sloop’s cockpit. “It didn’t matter that it was a little day boat,” Roberts had said. “She was my ship, and I was at her helm. It was amazing.”
“You didn’t see him much, did you?” the Kionel probed, listening intently.
Roberts agreed, and told him about the long absences when his father shipped out. Weeks became months, then months became years before he’d see his father’s broad smile at the door. Then one day the chaplain and the base commander arrived, and his father never came home again.
“What happened to him?” the Kionel had asked gently.
Roberts had smiled sadly before replying. “Spaceflight is dangerous,” he answered. “Fly long enough and you’ll lose someone you care about.”
Roberts straightened, emboldened by the kindly mood. “What about your childhood?” Roberts had asked.
The Kionel had looked down and chuckled, a smile playing on his face.
“Well?” Boothe pressed, annoyed.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he replied. “We talked about ourselves,” he continued. “He asked about my childhood, and I told him. I asked about his, and he told me about his upbringing in the Kionelaite.”
Boothe looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “That’s it?”
“You’re a man of service,” the Kionel had begun, “so this may sound familiar to you.” He’d then spoken about his life as part of the Kionelaite line. Endless lessons about geography, politics, history—even metaphysics. When he wasn’t studying there were military drills, inspections, and physical training. “Our lives are devoted to service,” the Kionel explained. “And if we’re to serve it is our duty to have as many tools at our disposal as we can.”
“Commander?”
Roberts shook his head. “Sorry. It was… amazing. I got some real insights into their Kionelaite and their culture.”
Boothe exhaled, her patience waning. “This isn’t an anthropological study,” she reminded him. “We have to get that base in place.”
“And this is how we’ll do it, ma’am,” Roberts replied tiredly. “I just need a little more time.”
Boothe sat back, stared into space, her eyes darting. When she locked her gaze on Roberts again, she looked far more tired than he had ever seen her.
“I’ll give you four weeks, Commander,” she said. “If you don’t get it done by then we’ll have to let Boucher do it for us.” Her tone hardened. “Do you really want that?”
Adrenaline pulsed through him, and Roberts stiffened. “No, ma’am.”
Boothe nodded. “Good.” The ghost of a smile played across her face. “You’ve faced a lot of curveballs out there, but you’ve really come through. Well done.”
Roberts smiled tiredly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Boothe didn’t bother to answer. Her face dissolved above his wristcom as she cut his connection.
“You told me that you chose to serve,” the Kionel had said, the memory bubbling up in Roberts’ mind. “Does that mean people on your world are not required to be part of something larger?”
“No,” Roberts replied. He smiled, navigating a teetering path between truths he could speak and those he had to keep hidden. “Every adult is required to perform two years of some public service after they finish their secondary education, but that could be nothing more than transportation maintenance or infrastructure repair.”
“All good work that needs to be done,” the Kionel conceded. “But a far cry from risking your life.”
“It’s not the work that matters,” Roberts replied. “It’s the lesson it teaches.”
“Which is?” the Kionel asked.
“That there’s more to life than just your desires,” Roberts answered. “That there will always be the need to put service before self.”
The Kionel just nodded, a small smile on his face.
Roberts sat back, and closed his eyes, the weight of the day finally wearing him down.
... and Boucher’s voice rattled in his comm system as his flight took fire. Missile alarms, countermeasure warnings, and AI failures washed across his cockpit, the alarms tinting his world red.
“Make this happen, people!” Boucher’s voice snarled into Roberts’ earpiece. “The Motinai want this place? Let’s make sure they don’t get it!”
Boucher voice quieted as he turned to the CIC crew on his flagship.
“All batteries,” Boucher called out. “Fire!”
Then the commodore cut off his communications with the fighters, the heavens lit up white, the ground blossomed red, and his wingmen erupted into flame.
Roberts lurched forward out of Agrath’s chair. His hands shook, and his heart pounded in his ears.
“Four weeks,” he said aloud.
Roberts sat down, pulled up his wristcom, and tried to understand how he could convince a new world to join an ancient fight without destroying everything that they were.
28
Old Kionel’s Palace
Kionel Elite Guard Training Facility
Leonathier, Tenasta
17 Sardua 1066
Avindair’s fists smashed into the hard leather of the hanging bag, each blow landing with a solid thump. The bag swung back a torso’s width with each punch, during which Avindair shifted his footing and changed up his attack. His heart pounded, his arms burned, but he kept moving, coating the bag with a spray of sweat each time his fists made contact.
She apologized! Avindair grunted. A right cross and uppercut followed. She diminished herself to that... that…
The bag swayed towards him and he punched it with all his might. The impact abruptly stopped its movement; the bag shimmied in space, spinning slightly from the impact.
“I think it’s dead,” Jagrav’s voice called out.
Avindair turned to see his second striding over from the entrance to the Kionel’s Elite Guardsman’s palatial gym. While others worked the various machines in their palace-issued workout gear, Jagrav sported his downtime attire. A V-neck, cobalt blue shirt complimented his neatly pressed white slacks; a woven belt matching his slip-on shoes. His red hair was styled into something resembling ruffled feathers, and a pair of gold studs shined from his earlobes.
Avindair groaned. That outfit meant only one thing.
“No,” Avindair said. He turned back to his bag.
“Yes,” Jagrav said, closing the distance between them. “Tonight.”
“Not in the mood.” Avindair punched the bag again for emphasis and shifted his position.
“Which is exactly when you need this!” Jagrav replied.
“I never need to watch your back,” Avindair replied, landing two more solid hits. He shifted his feet and dodged as the bag swayed towards him. “I’m there as a community service.”
Jagrav reached out and caught the bag before its bulk swayed back towards Avindair. He held it at arm’s length, fingers extended, careful not to get its accumulated grime on his clothes. “Not tonight,” Jagrav replied pointedly.
Avindair straightened. Sweat ran into his eyes and he grimaced. “Then you’re not drinking tonight?” he asked, panting.
Jagrav grinned. “No,” he said. “You are.”
“Hati,” Avindair snarled, the curse rolling uncomfortably off his lips. He lurched forward and reached out to grab the bag from Jagrav.
Jagrav stepped away as fast as he could, balancing the bag precariously against his fingertips.
“Look, I get it!” Jagrav said. “You feel like pava.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Avindair grunted, reaching out to snag the top of the bag’s line as Jagrav dodged around him.
“And this isn’t going to work!” Jagrav replied, easily sidestepping another lunge. “It’s just going to anger you up!”
“Says who?!”
His second just raised his eyebrows.
Avindair sighed. Walked right into that one, he thought, an
noyed.
“Time for a break,” Jagrav urged. “A real break.”
Avindair frowned. “What do you have in mind?” he asked cautiously.
Jagrav just smiled.
“I said the bar,” Jagrav groaned. He leaned back and took another sip of mewtla, his face twisting appreciatively. He spread his arms wide. “This? This is not the bar!”
Avindair chuckled, his vision swaying. Jagrav leaned back in one of the wooden chairs situated in front of Avindair’s office desk. He balanced the chair precariously on one leg, one foot stabilizing him so the mewtla in his clear plastic cup remained within its vessel, while the other draped comfortably on top of Avindair’s desk. He teetered suddenly, caught himself against a filing cabinet, and beamed, proud of his accomplishment.
“No,” Avindair replied. Are my words going more slow? He thought. I think my words are going more slow. “It’s not.”
Over Jagrav’s objections, Avindair had led his second back to his personal office situated in the westward corner of the old Kionel’s palace grounds. He’d stepped into the cramped space and grimaced at the tower of paperwork waiting in his “In” box. He usually spent the latter part of his days behind that desk, addressing the endless stream of documentation that came with being a commandant. In the days since the Terran’s arrival, he’d had no time to fulfill that small but bafflingly important role for the Tenastan bureaucracy.
“Why not the bar?” Jagrav whined, leaning forward. He threw his head back, his eyes closed in mock pain. “You’re killing me! The bartender is warm for my form!”
“No, he isn’t,” Avindair snorted. He topped off his cup with mewtla and settled back into the dark leather of his seat. “And I want quiet.”
“No, you don’t,” Jagrav countered. He waved one hand in an unsteady arc. “You just want control.” He took another sip, then smiled. “That’s always been your problem.”
Avindair glowered at Jagrav, then took another sip himself. “I—” Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. “I don’t think I’m the one with a problem,” he finally managed.