“Well if that isn’t incentive to work quickly, then I don’t know what is,” Commander Harm said.
“Agreed. See to it at once, Corporals. Dismissed.”
The funerals began the next day. Most were simple, somber affairs, short and sparsely attended by the deceased’s section chiefs and any friends or lovers who wished to send them off with a few kind words and remembrances.
The pilots honored their dead together.
Thirty flags—six gold, two dozen red—hung from the second level railings and the near side of the central catwalk linking the walkways. The six gold flags hung from the central catwalk, flanked on either side by twelve of their red cousins. Beneath them, wreathed in the brilliant colors and larger than life seals of Gold Wing and Red Wing, the 66 remaining pilots of Liberator stood at attention in their dress uniforms. Up top, the space around the second-level railing and central catwalk was lined three-deep with deck crew. Many still wore their sooty, grease-stained coveralls. Every man and woman present wore a black armband above the left elbow demonstrating their solidarity.
Fenton sat atop the makeshift dais along with Commandant Soroya and Commander Harm. When the service began, Dell stepped forward from among the ranks of the gathered pilots. He passed Fenton without a word or nod of acknowledgement, headed straight for the small podium at the center of the stage.
“I will now read the names of the fallen,” he announced when he reached it, his voice flat and emotionless. “Cenek, Nora: Wingman. Dekker, Trent: Wingman. Haddock, Niall: Wingman First Class. Jeffries, Randall: Wingman. Orson, Jonas: Wingman. Royce, Clara: Wingman First Class.” He paused as he read the sixth name, then said, “Gold Wing. Sound off.”
The response was thunderous, given back by everyone in attendance. “GOLD WING LEADS THE WAY!!”
Dell let the cacophonous echo dissipate before continuing. “Bell, Levon: Wingman. Breslin, Kimba: Wingman. Chao, Amiko: Wingman First Class.” He continued on through the entirety of Red Wing’s twenty-four person roster, hitching only once when he came to the name, “Estes, Drusilla: Wing Commander.” He paused, his own personal moment of silence for the woman who had sacrificed her entire wing to save his own, then pressed on. “Fuller, James: Wingman. Lomax, Alec: Wingman.” Finally, he reached the last name. “Sibley, Ulna: Wingman First Class.” Again, he paused before adding, “Red Wing. Sound off.”
This time, the roar that came back to him was almost deafening. “RED WING BRINGS THE HEAT!!”
When at last the bulkheads had stopped singing Red Wing’s praises, Dell said, “Major Wilkes would like to say a few words at this time.”
Fenton stood on cue, taking a steadying breath as he and Dell switched places. “Thank you, Wingman DeCoud. My name is Major Fenton Wilkes. I’ve never delivered a eulogy before, let alone so many all at once. I, uh, I’ll be honest… I barely knew most of these people. Your people. Yet I feel the weight of their loss as if it were my own. I can never repay them for their sacrifice, for giving their lives to protect all of ours. But I can honor that sacrifice. What I intend to unveil to you in the next few days I hope—I believe—will bring more meaning to the loss of your brothers and sisters, and all those who fell as well, than they or any of us could have ever possibly imagined.”
Stepping back from the podium, Fenton felt awkward and foolish. He’d never been much of a public speaker to begin with. He regretted not preparing any written remarks ahead of time. Without a speech or even notes, his delivery was awkward, his voice was shaky. More than once he nearly lost his train of thought. All in all he thought it a pretty piss poor showing. Certainly not at all worthy of the men and women he hoped to honor. Privately, he vowed to never give another eulogy again in his life.
Which made it all the more surprising, even startling, when the entire deck besieged him with cheers and applause not three steps removed from the podium. Fenton nearly jumped out of his skin, so unexpected was the reaction. His heart thumped riotously within his chest as Dell stood to shake his hand.
“Well said, sir.”
“Fenton,” he reminded Dell. “And frankly, I thought I was terrible.”
Dell shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not exactly how you say it that matters, so long as it’s what they need to hear. They wanted to know it all meant something. You just gave them that better than any of us could.”
As the service began to break up, Fenton went to find Roon. She had gone up to the second level to watch with Alexia. Instead, they found him first.
Roon put her hand on his shoulder to draw his attention. She leaned in to hug him while Alexia observed from a respectable distance. “That was a nice speech, Fenton,” she said after the two kissed and separated. One thing Fenton especially liked about Alexia was that she didn’t let a little thing like the gulf between rank or title interfere with the way she interacted with a friend.
“Thanks,” he said, not mentioning that personally he thought just the opposite. If everyone liked it so much, the better to let them think he appreciated it.
“Welcome. So, where are you two headed?”
“Probably just back to our quarters,” Roon answered for them.
“Ah.” Alexia smiled just so. “Sure I can’t tempt you guys with some galley sandwiches?”
Fenton suppressed a wince. “It’s been a long couple days.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She gave a little waggle of her fingers as she mounted and descended the ladder.
“So. Is that where we’re going?” When he failed to respond she nudged him gently. “Fenton?”
“Hmm? Sorry.”
“C’mon. You need some rest.”
Later that night, long after Roon had fallen asleep, Fenton lay wide awake by her side.
38 • ANOMALIES
“Commander Trufant? If I may interrupt, I’ve been informed the Zj’s shuttle is preparing to land.”
“Excellent. Come, gentlemen, ladies; let us ready ourselves.”
Trufant met the leader and sole representative of Clan Ndeeldavono in full dress regalia. His entourage stood similarly outfitted. A young lieutenant raised a hand to adjust his chaffing collar, earning a sharp gaze from the exacting ship commander. Pruitt had long since tuned out the personal discomforts that came as a result of corporate protocol. Part of his training for Tier One service included long periods of physical inactivity and the use of stress positions designed to challenge and enhance the endurance of recruits. Few understood how physically demanding, to say nothing of mentally taxing, it could be to hold even the most basic position for a few minutes, let alone hours on end. Fewer still possessed the willpower and muscle control, the sheer martial discipline, required of such a feat.
Pruitt did. As a result, he was poised to witness this historic meeting on behalf of his true masters.
The ramp descended. A dozen of Ndeeldavono’s top officers streamed out to form a semicircular honor guard on either side of the ramp. Like their Morgenthau-Hale counterparts, they were resplendent in their dress uniforms (or what he understood they referred to as their “victory skins”). The primary difference was the manner of style between the two forces. Morgenthau-Hale dress uniforms varied little from their day to day garb, with the exception of the braided gold epaulettes on their left shoulders and their ceremonial berets beneath the strap of the right. Additionally, there was the traditional overt display of any particular honors or distinctions in the course of one’s career. Because of the covert nature of his position, Pruitt’s breast was less weighed down with encomiums than if he were among his Tier One fellows.
The Tyroshi, by contrast, wore something akin to a skintight, full-body singlet composed of a series of flexible, overlapping scales. If Pruitt didn’t know better, he would swear the material was made of obsidian, so black and smooth were the scales. Yet they shimmered only slightly as they caught the bright, sterile lighting of the landing bay’s halogens, suggesting they were composed of some form of light-diffusing camouflage material.
Ingenious.
Each also carried an eight-foot-long spear capped with a point which appeared at first glance to be fashioned from the same material. A few of the Morgenthau-Hale Marines on hand stiffened visibly at the sight of the weapons, though they were clearly ceremonial. As the Tyroshi officers disembarked and arranged themselves according to protocol, they then turned and thrust the spears skyward, inclining them above their heads to form a gabled canopy for their commander to pass beneath.
The canopy formed, Ndeeldavono began his slow descent. He was followed a short distance behind by Lj Rejvollori. In his hands he bore a wooden box roughly three feet long by one foot wide and nearly half as deep. The Zj, meanwhile, moved with distinct, if somewhat restrained, purpose; clearly he was reveling in the pageantry of his grand entrance.
Trufant stepped forward as the procession came to an end and the spearmen behind Ndeeldavono and Lj Rejvollori returned to attention. “My good Zj,” he said. “I am Ship Commander Armand Trufant III of the SCS Morgenthau-Hale Battle Group Vanguard. I welcome you aboard my flagship as friend and ally.”
“Ship Commander Trufant,” Ndeeldavono nodded. “We, too, greet you as friend and ally. May we also compliment you on your battle group? It is most impressive when seen from a distance, but even more so upon approach.”
Trufant puffed out his chest. “Thank you, Zj Soliorana. It is most gracious of you to say so.”
“But of course. Now, shall we adjourn to a more private setting to discuss our business?”
“You do not have further requirement of your escort?” Trufant asked.
Ndeeldavono made a generally dismissive noise, waving backward at the spearmen with a creeping grin. “Oh, that was all just a bit of color for show. Lj Rejvollori shall accompany us, but we have no further use for the rest at this time. They may remain here until our departure.”
“Very well. To the conference room, then.”
Morgenthau-Hale was well represented in the conference room in the form of Trufant, Orth, Hondo, Stannick, Itzin, and Pruitt. Yet if the Zj found this top heavy arrangement of staff unsettling or unsavory in any way, he kept it to himself as the formal introductions went around the table.
Afterward, as Trufant opened his mouth to speak, the Zj nodded at his second.
“Commander, begging your apology, but before we begin in earnest, my Zj Soliorana of Clan Ndeeldavono would like to present you with a gift to commemorate your remarkable alliance.”
Trufant raised an eyebrow just so at this unexpected development. Looking from Lj Rejvollori to Ndeeldavono, however, he did not seem displeased by it. “Color me intrigued, my Zj. This gift your man speaks of… it wouldn’t happen to be the contents of that box, would it?”
“The very same, Commander Trufant.”
Unlike Orth, Pruitt noticed, Commander Trufant did not dispense with title or rank when addressing his newfound ally. While that was not altogether strange, it reflected upon the two men, he thought.
As he considered what exactly that might be, Lj Rejvollori placed the box on the table and opened it. Inside lay a bladed weapon, a bit too long to be a proper dagger but definitely too short to be thought of as a sword. It was old, the blade crusted black with blood and the leather wrap around the grip loose and sagging. Still, the blade appeared in good condition, and the bodkin spike on the base of the pommel remained intact. Even as Lj Rejvollori lifted the blade with the ease and delicacy of a man handling a valuable artifact, it looked every bit capable of snatching away a man’s life, should it ever come to that again.
Carefully, he presented the blade to Commander Trufant handle-first. As Trufant accepted the antique weapon, Ndeeldavono explained its origins.
“Many years ago, as a young soldier, we fought for the bravery of our clan. It was our first of many such engagements, but to this day it remains by far the bloodiest. Our enemy fought to the brink of extinction rather than surrender. Worse, they took a great many of our people with them in the process. The armistice talks proved the tipping point.”
“An armistice, you say? Is that not unusual for your people?”
“Indeed. Not our usual modus operandi, as you humans would say, but the stakes were high enough to warrant some flexibility on the subject. Our Zj dispatched a dozen of his best people, led by his son, to meet the enemy at a neutral location to finalize the terms. It was to be a comprehensive settlement, very generous. Many among the clans had grown weary of the conflict. They viewed this as an opportunity to champion a fresh approach, to lay aside acquisition by aggression and embrace a truly modern commercial model. Yet the moment the dignitaries arrived on site they were ambushed and taken into custody. The enemy put them on trial, convicted them on behalf of all Tyroshi in absentia, then publicly executed them in the capital. Disemboweling. Nasty business. The Zj’s son was last, made to watch each and every one of his men writhe in agony before he too was finally released into the Aftermire. It was broadcast live. To this day we do not know if the Zj witnessed it. In any case, he ordered a full-scale nuclear bombardment of the planet the next day. He was forced from command not long after, though we believe he went without regrets.”
“Forced from command?” Orth wondered. “As in, mutiny?”
Ndeeldavono frowned at Orth’s use of the term. “Not as you understand it, no. Every clan has certain provisions that allow for the graceful deposing of an ailing leader. In the case of Zj Hexxokoles, his ailment was vengeance. Even after he left power it spread like a cancer through the clans, so great was his influence,” he said, sighing almost wistfully. “We were on the cusp of a new day before the enemy plunged us back down into the dark with one cowardly act.”
“Most cowardly, I think we would all agree,” Trufant said to the general assent of the table. “Though I’m curious, this blade appears to be improperly aligned. When I grip it as such, with the guard forward, I find the blade and its tip facing inward, toward me. Not very useful for fighting, it would seem.” He demonstrated the awkwardness of the weapon to the amusement of Stannick and Hondo.
“Ahh, it is not the alignment, our good Commander, but the nature of your training that betrays you. If we may?” When Trufant hesitated, Ndeeldavono made a show of supplicating himself. “Forgive our coarseness. We mean not your training, but the training of all civilized warriors such as ourselves! This enemy, you see, is most savage and base in its attacks. They do not fight with honor.”
Mollified, Trufant handed over the blade.
“So you see,” Ndeeldavono said, “men such as ourselves are often trained to aim for the face and neck, the upper body. To hack and slash, as it were. This enemy, however—” He adjusted his attack, stabbing straight forward into an imaginary man’s belly, then wrenching upward with the blade’s upturned tip. “—as I said: disemboweling. First, however, they would likely attempt to bash you across the face with the guard or the bodkin tip on the pommel, thus making the primary act that much easier.”
“Fascinating,” Trufant admitted as Ndeeldavono placed the blade back in the box, “and grisly.”
“So we said, Commander Trufant. This enemy was positively beastly in its resistance. But we digress. Shall we get to the heart of the matter?”
“Having consulted with Lj Rejvollori and his technical team, we’ve detected two major anomalies occurring within this system. The first is obviously the planet. Simply put, it shouldn’t be here. There’s no record of it in any of our databases. I’ve queried the Tyroshi on the matter and they have no record of this planet, either.”
“And the planet is habitable?” Orth asked.
“Yes, sir, quite habitable. The atmosphere and landscape are ideal for supporting carbon-based life. In fact, our team on the surface has found evidence that some areas were recently inhabited, however briefly.”
“Where?”
“Primarily this archipelago near the equator—” Pruitt whisked his fingers across his flexpad in a series of practiced gestures. In response, the projection of the planet ro
tated, zooming in to reveal the chain of islands to which he was referring. “—but several other sites scattered across the planet, as well.”
“How many?”
“At the archipelago? Thousands, at least. The other sites range from a few dozen to the low hundreds.”
“What do you suppose they were doing?” Stannick wondered rhetorically.
Rhetorical or not, the question drew a chuckle from Commander Orth. “Isn’t it obvious, Rutger?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“R and R,” Orth said. “They were at war with Clan Kerikeshaala for nearly a year—a war which they were very nearly on the verge of losing before Fenton Wilkes and his merry band of fugitives arrived, I might add.” Ndeeldavono nodded stoically at this. “What better way to celebrate than to bivouac on an uninhabited, virgin planet for a few days before pressing onto their next objective?”
“Well reasoned, Knolan. I would agree that is the most likely explanation.” Trufant steepled his fingers and nodded. “You may continue with your report, Ensign Pruitt.”
“Yes, sir. The second anomaly is less obvious but still important, if for no other reason than the implication it suggests.”
“Go on,” Trufant prompted.
“The Errene Belt,” Pruitt said, sending an image of the belt to the projection hub. “A collection of asteroids spanning tens of thousands of kilometers with the distinction of being the only known celestial body occupying this system.”
“What about it?” Hondo asked. “Looks like a bunch of dusty old rocks.”
“It’s gone, sir.”
Trufant narrowed his eyes. “Gone?”
“Gone.”
“How… how could that be?” Itzin gaped, struggling to wrap her head around the concept.
“The working theory is that Major Wilkes directed his nanites to deconstruct the asteroids at the molecular level, using their constituent parts as a pool from which to draw and construct the planet.”
Pruitt expected this statement to make a major impact. He was not mistaken. Everyone from Itzin to Trufant was visibly rocked by the news that Wilkes had reached such an advanced stage in his research. Even Commander Orth was struck by the enormity of it.
The Lazarus Particle Page 30