by A. L. Bruno
Avindair turned, his upper lip curled into an angry snarl. “We’re not the one holding our Adishta hostage,” he roared, pointing at the screen. “They are!”
Elaq stood and planted both of his fists on the briefing room table in front of him. “You don’t know that, and neither do I.”
Avindair opened his mouth to respond. He didn’t get the chance. The door to the briefing room swung open and Oroya Tamas burst in. “The Terrans are on the vids!” she yelled, her face pale.
“Which channel?” Elaq asked, stunned.
Tamas spread her arms out wide. “All of them!”
Avindair recoiled, and the words from that damnable tablet in the Kionel’s chambers rose to taunt him. Death will arrive on quiet fire...
“Commandant?” Tamas prompted. “What… what do we—”
“Put it through to here!” Avindair ordered. “And attend to your post.”
“Yes, sir!” Tamas acknowledged, then sprinted away, her arms pumping with each step.
“If they attack…” Elaq began.
Avindair ignored him. He turned to face the projector screen just as the transmission from the Terrans came to life.
The Terran captain—Boothe, Avindair recalled—stared back at him, her bearing that of a queen on her throne. Around her, the cramped quarters of her dimly lit warship’s bridge—and the vessel hanging over the planet was a warship, of that he no longer had any doubt—buzzed with activity. Its crew diligently attending to strange floating displays they used like maestros conducting their very own orchestras. Only her second in command, Conrad, stood by her, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. Avindair looked desperately for any sign that the Terrans were engaged in combat operations. But if they were, he couldn’t tell.
Finally, Boothe spoke, and everything changed.
The Kionel summoned Avindair immediately after the Terran transmission ended. Avindair ran out of the TEWC and across the parade grounds, his heart pounding with each step.
“We’ll do everything we can,” the Terran captain had said, her features infuriatingly neutral. “At this point their recovery is in the hands of both my staff, and that of a higher power.”’
Avindair’s gut twisted, and his run became a sprint, only relenting when he reached the palace’s postern door.
“Make a hole!” he roared the moment that his own guardsman challenged him for an ID. His troop didn’t have to be told twice. He stood aside, but swiftly stopped any others trying to sneak in behind his commandant.
The foyer hummed like a generator at full power. Avindair got the barest impression of pale faces, tearful eyes, and terrified whispers before he turned towards the steps, still moving at a full run. A mass of press suddenly crossed his path, their microphones extended like pikes against a cavalry charge, and he skidded to a halt.
“Clear the way!” Avindair bellowed. “State business!”
Avindair’s words parted the press like an icebreaker charging through the spring flow. He pressed on, his heart pounding. She could be dead, he thought, swallowing against the panic rising in his chest. She could have died hours ago, and I wouldn’t know!
“How did we not know the Terrans had weapons of this caliber?”
Avindair recognized Tarkena’s smug voice without having to turn and look at him. Avindair pressed on, hoping that no cameras would catch his hands shaking as he moved.
“That was armor,” Avindair snapped, refusing to look back at the reporter, “and how could we know? We only know what they tell us.”
“Clearly it’s not enough,” Tarkena snarked back.
Tarkena would never know how close to death he came at that moment. Avindair imagined the heel-strike that would jam the cartilage of the reporter’s nose into his brain, and he very nearly acted upon it. It was only the sight of the entrance to the security corridor that brought him back to reality, and he ran towards it, his boots pounding against the polished foyer floor.
“What about the Adishta?” Tarkena yelled. By then, Avindair was through the door, his security personnel stepping aside without challenge, and he once again fought the urge to scream like a frightened tiger.
“Is he talking?” Avindair asked.
“Not a word,” the security chief replied. Both he and Avindair stood in the interrogation observation room, their eyes fixed on the man shackled to a table on the other side of the one-way glass.
Hurin Gishkim was a battered mess. His left eye was swollen shut, the wound a mix of purples, blues, and pinks against his pale skin. His blond hair was shorn close, revealing the H’Tanzian tattoos beneath, while his broken nose and swollen lip spoke to the violence of his capture.
He shouldn’t be alive, Avindair groused. Jagrav’s team had captured Gishkim only moments after he’d turned on Avindair’s second, blade raised and ready to strike. The fireteam repeated the same thing: Jagrav had blocked their shots as he rushed to confront Gishkim. By the time they reached Jagrav, the Terran, and Adelisa—his stomach lurched at her name—all lay bleeding on the ground, torn asunder by the machinations of a madman.
Or so they would have you believe, Avindair thought.
“Any links to the Kalinteli government?” Avindair pressed. “The CAA?”
“Nothing beyond his travel papers,” the chief replied. “Beyond that, he’s a ghost.”
Gishkim looked down, his one open eye dull, mucus dripping in a thin line from his broken nose.
“He completed what he came here to do,” Avindair snarled, frustrated. “There’s no punishment we can inflict on him now that he’s not ready to accept.
“They always think that,” the chief replied, his gold eyes gleaming. “And they’re always wrong.”
Gishkim coughed, and a wad of mucus landed on his upper lip. If he felt it, he didn’t seem to care.
“Make him talk,” Avindair ordered. “If you can’t make him talk—make him scream.”
Avindair was out the door before the chief could reply.
Avindair’s next stop was the infirmary.
Jagrav lay on his back in the clinic’s bed, his right arm in a cast, the left half of his face covered in bandages. Avindair’s eyes narrowed, and he fought the urge to bellow with fury. Gishkim was trained, he realized, looking down at the broken remains of his second. You don’t beat a man like Jagrav without knowing how to fight.
A chill ran through Avindair. He realized that, had it not been for Jagrav’s own backup troops, his second—his friend—would have died.
“I’m sorry.” Jagrav’s voice was a thin rattle.
Avindair leaned down, surprised. “We have him pumped full of painkillers,” the doctor had informed him the moment he had stepped into the clinic. “He’s going to be out for quite a while.”
“I should have been closer,” Jagrav continued, his voice the scrape of a shovel on sand. His eye widened suddenly, and he reached out with his left arm, panicked. “Adelisa?!” he asked. “Is she…?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.
“She’s being cared for,” Avindair replied, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “All that matters is that you stopped the man who did this.”
“Not enough,” Jagrav muttered. The brightness in his eye faded as the meds kicked back in. “Should have done more…”
Jagrav drifted back to sleep, his mouth still opened by his unfinished sentence.
Yes, you should have.
The thought hit Avindair like a stab to the chest and he flinched. He turned away, disgusted with himself, and strode out of the room.
Nashita spotted Avindair the moment he exited the infirmary.
“Has there been any word?” Nashita asked, trotting alongside him, her eyes swollen from long-shed tears.
“No,” Avindair growled.
Nashita grabbed his arm and pulled.
“You have to get them back!” Nashita yelled, pleading.
Avindair stopped and looked down at where Nashita gripped his arm.
Nashita’s eyes widened, a
nd she recoiled, surprised at her own action.
“Them?” Avindair asked, realizing what the H’Tanzian woman had said. His voice dropped. “Even the Terran?”
“Of course!” Nashita blurted.
She’s only worried about him, Avindair thought, disgusted. He turned and stalked away, his hands balled with fury.
“This isn’t the time for a schoolgirl crush,” Avindair spat. “Your Adishta’s life is at stake.”
When Avindair reentered the foyer, he knew at once that something had changed. Shock and tears had transformed to worry and fear. His gut tightened as he approached the stairway to the Kionel’s elevator, determined to give the frightened people around him a rock on which they could stand.
“This isn’t a crush!” Nashita yelled, running up alongside him, determined to make her point. She sprinted ahead and turned on him, her face twisted by confusion. “Haven’t you heard?”
Avindair glanced around the foyer at the stares he was receiving from frightened staff. He turned back to Nashita, curious.
“Heard what?” Avindair asked, his voice hard.
Suddenly Tarkena was on him again, his microphone seemingly appearing in front of Avindair’s mouth as if summoned. “Commandant,” Tarkena asked, his voice a carefully assembled pastiche of concern. “What is your reaction to the Kalinteli State Security Service raising its alert level?”
Avindair stepped back, the action reflexive, and he felt his eyes go wide. Nashita’s startled gasp at his side only made the moment more humiliating.
This is what they wanted, Avindair realized. The Kalinteli wanted an excuse to escalate!
Tarkena read the play of emotions on Avindair’s face and smiled smugly. “Then I take it you haven’t been informed yet. Can I get a comment for my viewers?”
Avindair didn’t answer. Ignoring both Nashita’s and Tarkena’s pleas, he rushed up the steps leading to the Kionel’s elevator, taking them three at a time.
The Kionel was furious when Avindair finally arrived. The older man’s hands shook, and he gasped after nearly every breath. When he spoke, his voice was thin and reedy.
“I ordered you here almost an hour ago!” the Kionel managed between coughs. His hidden vid screen was open, the talking heads blathering in a frantic rush as they attempted to dissect the Terran captain’s speech.
“I had to check on my man,” Avindair replied pointedly, “and on the prisoner.”
The Kionel’s cough hardened, and Avindair crossed to him, ready to help him to his desk. Avindair’s Hikasa would not have any of it. He batted his commandant’s hands away, then sat back in his desk chair, his breathing a series of wet rattles.
“Good,” he finally managed. He coughed again, then leaned forward, his eyes an angry mix of red and gold. “Why did this happen?!”
“We’re still trying to find out,” Avindair admitted. “But my guess is that the attack was meant for the Terran. Adelisa—” Avindair took a deep breath to regain his composure. “It looks like she may have got in the way.”
The Kionel’s gaze hardened. “Is that so?”
Avindair opened his mouth to respond but the Kionel silenced him with one raised finger. He pressed a button on his desk and the live news feed gave way to a series of recordings.
“Hikasa—” Avindair began, confused.
“Look!” the Kionel snapped, then turned away, choking into his fist.
Avindair turned to the screen, and was surprised to see Chatura the Troublemaker there, her eyes wide for once with genuine surprise.
“We, um…” she began, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “We have some extraordinary footage provided by a resident of Saranatari that we just obtained a few minutes ago. It’s…” she swallowed, blinking as she thought of what to say next, then finally shrugged. “Well, you can see for yourself.”
Avindair’s skin went cold. What could make her be at a loss for words? The screen flickered, the scene changed, and suddenly Avindair understood completely.
The cameraperson had been sitting on a roof, gleefully filming the Nadala Somfar revelers between occasional shots of the mixed drink he held in one hand. At first it was no different than any of the other festivals Avindair had attended throughout his life: crowds of people, music, chanting, and the ringing of the ulaid’s bells. Within the space of two heartbeats, however, everything changed.
At first, all Avindair spotted was movement. A figure in dark robes slid out from underneath one of the tenali’s many overhangs, stalking its prey—a young woman clad in the traditional red and black of the Nadala Somfar—with expert precision. The figure—Gishkim, Avindair realized, a snarl pulling at his upper lip—dashed from side to side, careful to keep his target in front of him.
He was stalking her, Avindair realized, his stomach flipping. Not the Terran, her.
Suddenly Adelisa turned, her mouth open to speak, and the attack was over almost before it began.
Gishkim dashed from under the nearest overhang—no doubt using the crowd for cover—then stepped out in front of Adelisa. There was a glint of steel in the sunlight. His blade was out and thrust into Adelisa’s stomach within the space of a breath.
Avindair stiffened, a sob breaking from his throat. The shouted word “Aditali!” delayed by the time it took to travel to the camera’s microphone.
He butchered her! Avindair thought. Hot tears streamed down his face and his knees shook. He butchered her in broad daylight.
At that moment Avindair decided that Gishkim would never leave the palace alive.
Gishkim spat on Adelisa’s prone form, then raised his blade. The crowd ran from him, terrified, while he readied his final strike. There was a pause, then with shocking swiftness he swept his blade downward…
... and the Terran leapt over Adelisa’s body and took the blow intended for her.
Avindair staggered backwards. He barely registered Jagrav’s fight that followed, or the ease with which Gishkim disarmed and disabled his second. All he saw was Roberts laying over Adelisa, the Terran’s blood staining the cobblestones around him.
“He saved her?” Avindair whispered.
“Before your own man, yes,” the Kionel replied. The respite had done the older man well, his poise fully recovered. “A man from another world risked his life to save my granddaughter.” He continued, his voice growing harder with each word. “And where were you?”
“Here!” Avindair cried. The protest was out before he realized he had spoken. “She gave us no time to plan her protection! She demanded that she take that Terran—”
“His name is Roberts!” the Kionel interrupted. “Start using it.”
“Fine!” Avindair retorted. His entire body shook, and his face felt like it was on fire. “Roberts!” The word tasted like filth in his mouth. “She told us that she had to take him. That it would make you happy. And that she was going with or without us!”
“So, you let her go without you,” the Kionel snarled.
“She didn’t want me there!” Avindair moaned, the words almost coming out as a sob. “She wanted Jagrav, not me, and then—” his voice caught, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
“Jagrav did his duty,” the Kionel warned, his voice low. “Don’t you dare imply otherwise.”
“She nearly died,” Avindair said. He slowly collapsed into the chair in front of the Kionel’s desk. “And I wasn’t there for her.” He squeezed his eyes hard against the tears rolling down his cheeks.
For a moment there was nothing but the babbling of the video feed behind him, the squeak of the chair protesting under his bulk, and the rapid beating of his own heart. Finally, the Kionel spoke.
“No,” the Kionel replied, his voice iron. “You weren’t.”
The words burned Avindair like a stab to the chest. He cringed, but swallowed back a rising sob, determined not to lose any more of his dignity in front of his Hikasa.
“Tell the media room to prepare for me,” the Kionel continued, either not noticing or not caring
about his commandant’s pain. “Return to the TEWC. Calm the Kalinteli down before this nonsense spirals out of control.”
Avindair didn’t reply. I wasn’t there, he thought, the image of the blade sliding into Adelisa’s gut repeating in a torturous loop. I failed her.
“Commandant!” the Kionel snapped.
Avindair looked up, shuddering, his vision blurred by tears.
“I have given you an order,” the Kionel pressed. His voice was that of a man accustomed to leading others into battle. “Execute it, or I’ll find someone who will!”
Avindair dragged himself to his feet but refused to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He straightened himself to his full height and took in a deep, shuddering breath. When he spoke, his voice rattled the windows around him.
“Your words,” Avindair said, “my will.”
The Kionel didn’t reply. Instead, he strode towards his bed chambers, his head held high, any hint of the previous weakness buried or forgotten. Within moments, Avindair was left alone in the chambers, his only company the lights of Leonathier blinking to life in the distance.
36
T.S.S. Illustrious
Golden’s Hold Sector
June, 2344
“Atten-hut!” Lt. Commander Goel called out, his voice piercing the chatter in VSW 314’s ready room. Roberts rocketed to his feet, his eyes locking onto the podium at the front of the bay proclaiming it the home of the 314th Black Knights. On the left side of his peripheral vision, he could just make out the crossed scepter placard that proclaimed the ship T.S.S. Illustrious, while on his right Lt. (j.g.) Sarahi Sunder stared straight ahead, her short black hair gleaming in the dim light.
“At ease, everyone,” Commodore Gerard Boucher ordered, striding up to the podium. Sunder dropped into the seat next to him, while Roberts sat slowly, his eyes never leaving the officer at the front of the room.
Roberts had heard Commodore Boucher’s voice a handful of times during the three-month journey to Golden’s Hold—usually resulting in intense eye-rolling from Sunder—but this was the first time that he had laid eyes on him. Tall and slender, Boucher’s regulation-trimmed brown hair had just begun to show the salt and pepper that heralded the twilight of his career. Angular features and an aquiline nose framed brown eyes and thin lips that always seemed to be smiling. While his bag was tailored to perfection, the single star on his shoulders shone like a beacon for everyone in the room to see.