Stars Forever Black: Book I of the Star Lion Saga

by A. L. Bruno

  “Big day, huh?” Boucher started, a smile spreading across his face. A chuckle rippled around the room. Only Goel and Sunder did not share in the levity.

  Roberts ignored them. He leaned forward, anxious to hear the briefing.

  The wall behind Boucher dissolved, revealing a holotank projection of the task force as it hung above Golden’s Hold. Most of the vessels were standard TSF affairs, their pointed hulls arrayed like javelins towards the surface. Illustrious, however, stood out. A massive, mushroom-shaped hull tapered back to her engineering and drive bays, while the forward bulk of the vessel carried the multi-role combat space wings within. An older design, Illustrious had seen more battles than there were officers in the ready room, and its unit citations were the stuff of legends. Roberts had punched the sky when he’d learned that he’d been assigned to her for his first duty. He considered himself lucky every day to be a part of her legacy.

  Now Illustrious hung above a Terran colony world, its combat bays prepped for an assault, and Roberts wondered how they were going to get out of the situation without bloodshed.

  It had all started three months earlier. Intel stations along the ever-shifting Motinai-Union border had detected a massive fleet near Golden’s Hold. The intel team’s curiosity quickly changed to concern, then outright panic. They’re going after Golden’s Hold! the intel briefs had virtually shouted. If we don’t stop them, we’ll lose the Union’s largest paxanite mining facility!

  A task force was assembled. Commodore Boucher—the very same Boucher who had fought back the Motinai at Fomalhaut, who had brokered a ceasefire during the Lucian uprising, and who had dragged the battered remains of T.S.S. Boreas to port after the ambush at Epsilon Eridani—was placed in command.

  Not long afterwards, Governor Cook, leader of the free colony of Golden’s Hold, had shocked the galaxy with his terms. “We need you in space,” Cook declared to the Terran military, “but keep your troops off our planet until we ask.”

  The Union had agreed to the terms, but privately, TSF Leadership had been incensed. Roberts agreed. “How are we supposed to protect a world if they won’t let us land there?” Roberts had complained to anyone who would listen. Tensions rose in the squadron as personnel manned their own battle lines on either side of the issue. It finally took Boucher’s calm voice reminding his forces that “... Cook is a reasonable man…” to ease the tension, and soon the mission was set: reach Golden’s Hold, establish a perimeter, and defend the colony at all costs. “We’ll deal with the details once we get there,” Boucher had told his people. “Until then, attend to your duties and prepare for battle.”

  When they finally arrived at Golden’s Hold, things had quickly gone from bad to worse.

  “Governor Cook has decided to make things difficult,” Boucher began, sweeping his eyes across the assembled pilots in the ready room. “He’s not budging. He won’t let us land, and now he wants his complaints raised to the Union Council.”

  “And he’s right,” Sunder whispered next to Roberts, her voice low. Roberts shushed her, his eyes locked ahead.

  “I know some of you agree with him,” Boucher said, as if hearing Sunder. He stepped around the side of the podium and leaned on it like an athlete after a tough game. Concern played across his features like a blast of dry ice across a stage floor. “And most of the time I’d agree.” Boucher gestured over his shoulder almost without thought, and the scene behind him scrolled outward. The G2 star around which Golden’s Hold orbited shrank to a single point of light among hundreds, its position hovering dangerously close to a meandering red line marked as Motinai Occupied Space. On the other side of that line, designated by a cluster of arrows pointed directly at the world, was a mass of Motinai ships; a timer counting down the days and hours until they arrived on orbit. “But this ain’t the time to protest,” Boucher continued. “The Motinai, they’re coming for us—and they don’t give a good goddamn about our rights.”

  “I don’t believe that’s the issue, sir,” Sunder spoke up.

  Roberts looked over, shocked, and Goel stepped forward. “Belay that, Lieutenant!” Goel hissed.

  Boucher held up a hand, his features a pastiche of patience. “Now, now, the lieutenant has a point.” He stepped forward—Goel retreating, mortified—and stared down at Sunder. “We’re not machines, and we sure as hell don’t follow illegal orders. If the lieutenant has a concern, now’s the time to get it off her chest.”

  Roberts glanced back and forth between Boucher and Sunder. She’s always been too stubborn for her own good, he thought, shrinking back, embarrassed. All I can do now is try to avoid the fallout.

  But she has a point…

  The thought entered Roberts’ mind. He and Sunder had bonded (a little too closely, the CAG had warned him) during the voyage, and her concerns had started to make sense. “They’re sovereign!” Sunder had complained, snuggling into his shoulder. They lay on the makeshift bed they’d assembled on the floor of one of the maintenance-downed dropships. “How would you feel if someone burst into your home and demanded that you do what they tell you?”

  “We’re just there to protect them,” Roberts had insisted. “We’re not the enemy here.”

  Sunder had rolled over and faced him, her head resting on one hand. “We’re talking about invading our own people.”

  Roberts closed his eyes and pushed away the memory of their debate. We’re about to drop, he thought. Focus! He fought the urge to reach up and touch the two bars that had made him a full lieutenant only days before and instead directed his mind to his duty. It’s the mission, he reminded himself, and we’re in good hands. When he opened his eyes again his doubts were gone, and he fixed his gaze on Boucher.

  “So,” Boucher asked, that comfortable half-smile permanently affixed to his face. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

  “Golden’s Hold is sovereign territory,” Sunder began, her Urdu-accented voice lilting across the room, “and Governor Cook is a retired Marine general. He’s built a solid planetary defense, one of the best in the Union, and he insists that his forces are ready to fight alongside ours should it come to that.”

  “It will,” Boucher interjected. “You can count on that.” The smile never left his face, but Roberts noted that the omnipresent mirth had vanished from the commodore’s eyes.

  Boucher raised a hand and bowed slightly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sunder continued. “When General Cook—"

  “Governor,” Boucher corrected.

  Sunder nodded, undeterred. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Boucher grinned, bowing his head graciously. “Again, didn’t mean to stop you.” He cocked his head to one side and fixed Sunder with an appraising gaze. “You admire him.”

  Sunder settled back, and she grinned. “Yes, sir. My father served with him when he and General Aurum took the world back in thirty-four.”

  Boucher’s perfect teeth gleamed in the darkness, his holo-ready smile lighting the room. “That makes sense. He’ll always be a general to you.”

  Sunder nodded. “Yes, sir, he will.”

  “And he is to me, too,” Boucher replied, turning his back on Sunder and moving behind the podium. “And, like your father, I served with him, too.” Boucher’s smile faded. “But I have to tell you, Ms.…” he held out one hand like a blade, beckoning.

  “Sunder,” she replied.

  “Ms. Sunder,” Boucher continued, “this isn’t thirty-four. Those Motinai shock troops will cut through Cook’s defenses like they aren’t even there. That’s why we have to get down to the surface.”

  “But this is their sovereign territory—” Sunder began.

  “And it won’t be if we don’t keep the Motinai away,” continued Boucher, cutting her off. Sunder tensed, surprised, and Roberts suddenly felt uneasy.

  Reading the room, Boucher’s features softened, and he raised both hands in a polite mea culpa. “We’re just here to keep these people safe,”
Boucher continued. “And you have my word that the moment we drive those little gray bastards away we’ll be out of Cook’s heliosphere before evening mess.” Boucher’s smile vanished again, and his normally friendly features hardened. “But we have to win this battle, and this action is our first step. Am I clear?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Sunder managed, her voice catching.

  Boucher’s eyes darkened. “Am I clear?!” His voice ringing across the ready room.

  “Aye, aye, sir!” the assembled pilots boomed, Roberts’ voice raised along with the others.

  “Outstanding!” Boucher bellowed, his dazzling grin once again on full display. He fixed Sunder with a friendly gaze, his smile wide. “When you get back, you and I’ll have a few drinks and I can tell you some stories about how your old man and General Aurum nabbed this place.” His eyebrows raised. “But I need you back in one piece. Can you do that for me, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  Boucher grinned again. “Outstanding,” he repeated, then turned back to the battle plan on the holodisplay behind him, his shoulders squared. “Now, people, let’s talk about what’s gonna happen next.”

  Roberts looked over at Sunder. Any concern that she had was gone, and she stared transfixed at the leader at the front of the room.

  But he didn’t answer her question…

  The thought caught Roberts off guard, but he brushed it away, still heady from the commodore’s charisma. He bumped playfully into Sunder with his shoulder, and she looked back at him, her full lips spread into a heartbreaking smile.

  The skin on Sunder’s forehead suddenly fractured, then floated away, revealing the muscle beneath. The cracks spread, drying her supple skin like a riverbed in a drought, and then, piece by piece, she came apart. Her skin flaked upwards and away, her bones collapsed to dust, and her hair evaporated like mist on a morning lake. Finally, her face melted, her eyes boiling and suddenly she was screaming and her body exploded and Roberts yelled, reaching out, his hands covered with blood, and—

  T.S.S. Hyperion

  Medical Bay

  22 December 2356

  23:27

  Roberts woke up screaming; his shrieks bouncing off the low-hanging, cable-covered ceiling. He looked around panicked, visions of Sunder dying in front of him. But she didn’t die like that, a small, rational voice in his head reminded him. She died on the first drop, her F-295 shattered eighty kilometers above the planet’s surface. And suddenly he was aware of the braced arches of a starship interior, the sounds of the monitors twittering and beeping, and he knew he was aboard Hyperion. The pain of reconstruction nanos knitting him back together arched down his spine, followed by the salty taste of intravenous fluids filling his mouth, and he realized exactly where he was.

  “Med bay,” Roberts croaked, blinking. His throat felt as if someone had poured sand down it while he had slept.

  “Well, your brain works,” Doc Nesheim’s voice called from his right.

  I’m in med bay. He frowned. How did I get to med bay?

  “You got lucky, Commander,” Doc Nesheim continued. She stepped in front of him, a pad-held med sensor sweeping across his body.

  “I’m on the ship?” Roberts managed, confused. He closed his eyes, concentrating. But we were…

  “Give it time,” Nesheim counseled. “You’ve been through hell.”

  Roberts opened his eyes and looked up at the doctor. She looked terrible. Her dark skin was almost gray, and bags had apparently taken up permanent residence under her eyes.

  “You—” Roberts coughed, and Nesheim handed him a cup of water. He sipped it down, flinching at the pain it sent searing down his throat, and he looked back at her with squinted eyes. “You should talk,” he finally managed.

  “Oh, this is all your doing,” Nesheim replied, easing him back onto his pillow. She chuckled. “At least it got me off the ship.”

  Roberts frowned. “You went to the surface?” he asked. He frowned. There was a... party? A celebration? He squeezed his eyes shut hard, frustrated. It’s right there! he thought. I just can’t get to it!

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Nesheim replied. “Now sleep.” Her pad pinged and something warm filled his body. He sank back, suddenly relaxed. Rest, he thought. Just rest.

  The blade smacked into Adelisa’s gut, and blood spurted outward as if driven by a pump.

  Roberts bolted upright so quickly that he nearly hit Nesheim in the face with his forehead. “Adelisa!” he blurted. “Where is she?!”

  Nesheim backed away, surprised. “What the hell are they feeding you down there?” She went back to work on her medpad.

  “We were…” he blinked against the way the world spun around him and how his limbs lay leaden by his sides, and instead focused on the doctor in front of him. “We were…” He grimaced, the memories hanging just out of reach.

  “You were attacked,” Doc Nesheim prodded, one eyebrow raised.

  Roberts nodded, the vision of blood exploding from an abdomen repeating on a loop behind his eyelids. “How... how bad?”

  They hit you, that Phelspharian security guy—”

  “Jagrav?” Roberts interrupted, confused. “He’s hurt?”

  Doc Nesheim nodded. “And Adelisa, too.”

  The blade pierced her stomach and blood burst out. She collapsed, her forehead hitting the cobblestone below with an audible crack.

  Roberts flinched. “Did she…?” The rest of the sentence caught in the back of his throat as if it dare not be spoken aloud.

  By way of answer, Doc Nesheim stepped out of the way. Across from him in the med bay, Adelisa lay in one of the medical bunks; the constellation of sensors surrounding her all firmly lit green.

  “She’s fine,” Nesheim assured him. “It was close, but we got to her here in time.”

  The memory of the blade biting into her abdomen pulled at him again.

  “Her stomach,” he managed. “Is it…?” He pointed at the scar on his face.

  Nesheim softened. “No,” she reassured him. “But you weren’t so lucky.” She leaned over, a tired smile on her face. “Looks like you got yourself a new scar to brag about.”

  Roberts didn’t hear her. The moment he realized that Adelisa was fine he lay back in his bunk and let sleep drag him away.

  T.S.S. Hyperion

  Medical Bay

  23 December 2356

  06:18

  The next time Roberts woke, it was with Captain Boothe and Commander Conrad by his side.

  “How you feeling?” Conrad asked. Like Nesheim, the exec looked like hell, his eyes bloodshot and his skin sallow. Despite that, Roberts couldn’t help but notice that the bloat the exec suffered over the past few weeks had receded dramatically, and he was regaining his fighting trim.

  “Thirsty,” Roberts replied.

  The word was barely out of his mouth before Conrad jammed a clear plastic cup of water under his nose. Roberts grabbed it and downed it in a single gulp, the liquid cooling his parched throat.

  “What happened down there, Commander?” Boothe asked, her tone no-nonsense.

  If Conrad looked terrible, Captain Boothe looked broken. An already thin woman, she looked emaciated, her lack of body fat adding ten years to her appearance. Her space-pale skin had turned as gray as his berth’s bulkheads. Only her eyes remained the same, her commanding gaze reminding Roberts to whom he spoke.

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” Roberts replied, still woozy. It didn’t take him long. He described the trip to the tenali, the crowd, the music, and the pyre. Lastly, he described the way the dark figure stepped out and stabbed Adelisa.

  “And?” Boothe pressed.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Roberts replied, too weak to shrug. “That’s all I can remember.”

  “What about the man who attacked you?” Boothe pressed. She leaned forward. “This is important, Commander. We need to know as much about him as you can tell us.”

  Conrad shot an annoyed look at Boothe, but said nothin
g.

  “Adelisa,” Roberts started, then coughed, his throat dry. Conrad dashed away, then returned, the water bottle refilled.

  “Yes,” Boothe said impatiently. “She’s here and she’s resting. What can you tell us about the man who attacked her?”

  Roberts looked up at Boothe, irritated. “When will she be awake?” he asked as forcefully as he could manage.

  Boothe stiffened. “Commander, we have larger concerns here. We need—”

  “What the hell are you doing with my patient?!” Doc Nesheim’s voice exploded across the room.

  Roberts turned his head slowly and spotted the doctor moving sternly towards them. “He needs to rest, Captain.” Doc Nesheim’s tone left no room for debate.

  “We need his statement, Doctor,” Boothe returned obstinately.

  “After he rests.” Doc Nesheim brandished her holopad like a weapon, and, with a sweep of her fingers, the nanos in Roberts’ body leapt to work.

  “I need him conscious!” Boothe demanded.

  “And he will be when I say he can be!” the doctor retorted.

  “I think I’m feeling better,” Roberts tried to say, but nothing came out. The nanos went to work, and he suddenly felt incredibly heavy. The bed seemed to swallow him, and darkness took him to a dreamless sleep.

  T.S.S. Hyperion

  Medical Bay

  23 December 2356

  15:24

  “Tuvu katru Eid?”

  Roberts yawned and instantly regretted it. His shoulder muscles pulled, and his spine shot fingers of electricity down to his feet. It’s healing, he realized; the memory of his weeks convalescing aboard T.H.S. Herald after his recovery from Golden’s Hold returning unwelcomed. Nanos are doing their job.