Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude

by Andy Kasch

  Brandon set the flute down. “The game is still banned on Banor and at our space station. Those of us who recognize polwar for the scourge that it is, and are able to resist it, outnumber the weak who have been seduced. I suspect it is the same way on most worlds, including Azaar—or else there would be no production of any kind, and your military would not be so quick to react when an unthreatening solitary visiting ship arrives in your space. I’ve witnessed the cultural destruction caused by polwar firsthand, not only in Tora but among your own race.”

  A long moment of silence ensued as the Azaarian emissary stared back at Brandon from across his ivory desk. Olut6 was right. These guys could be intimidating with their size, swanky robes, and condescending demeanor. Derek once referred to them as “lion people.” It was a valid comparison. When negotiating with an Azaarian, one got the feeling they might lunge at any moment and eat you for lunch. Especially during calculated moments of silence.

  But Brandon wasn’t going to let them win at this game. He was the one carrying the big stick, and he knew it—otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here. And Brandon could probe for information with the best of them. So far, his facade was working. Might as well test the extremes.

  “Please understand we don’t blame you for polwar,” Brandon said. “There was a time when we assumed it originated at Azaar. But now we know the truth—which is one of the reasons I’m here.”

  The emissary’s eyes softened. He leaned forward and responded in a softer tone.

  “When times change, sometimes a people find themselves forced to change with them, for their own survival.”

  Now Brandon was getting somewhere. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as well.

  “Submitting to evil in the name of self-preservation is the surest way to undermine your self-preservation.”

  The emissary moved back in his chair. A look of shock overcame him. Brandon must have caught him off guard. The emissary quickly changed the subject.

  “Regarding your reception. It is regrettable that we could not be more cordial, but Azaar is not accepting foreign visitors at this time. You should understand this, as your own space station was closed and you’ve been refusing delegates for the last seven years yourselves. But even if this were a more acceptable time, I admit we would still be wary of Torians. We are …embarrassed of the incident which occurred several decades ago. I can only offer our official and sincerest apologies.”

  “We have always accepted your explanation,” Brandon said, “and are no longer concerned over that—”

  “As to the matter of the captured Latian fleet, we have no interest in it. That is an issue between Torians and Latians. If an Azaarian transport ship was recently seen at the hydrosphere world in that same system, it is not to my knowledge—but if the circumstance is true, I can assure you it had nothing to do with the Latian fleet.”

  Silence again. The emissary had recomposed and put his walls back up. Brandon realized he wouldn’t get much further with him. But he didn’t figure he would be stuck with this guy much longer. The deck hands on the military base had insisted on Brandon’s two pilots exiting the landing craft and waiting in a reception area after they landed. Brandon assumed they were searching his shuttle right now. Most likely, a high military commander would soon join them. Brandon decided to try and expedite that.

  “There was wreckage, you know.”

  The emissary responded with only a confused look.

  “At HD28, where your transport ship attempted to hide from another vessel. A considerable amount of space wreckage was drifting there.”

  His expression remained unchanged. The topic was now clearly out of the emissary’s league. His next words would probably reveal whether he had any knowledge of it at all.

  At that moment, the door to the room opened and another large figure entered. Brandon turned, expecting to see an Azaarian general.

  He was disappointed. It wasn’t a military commander. It was a Chenel, an Azaarian half-breed. Brandon remembered them from the rescue operation at Milura thirty years ago. They wore head-covering cloaks, as the Torian Sheen did, to temper some of the brightness which shone from their skin—although Chenel also had short facial hair which dimmed it some naturally. They still retained many Azaarian features, including long face whiskers on pointed faces. Chenel were tall, but not as bulky as their Azaarian half-brothers.

  “Tulros,” the Chenel said. He bowed.

  Brandon returned the greeting but remained seated.

  “We are honored by your visit and wish to present you with a gift.” The Chenel reached his hand out. He held a metal ring with a bell-shaped object hanging from it.

  Brandon reluctantly accepted it. He then noticed the Chenel was wearing the same item on his wrist, as the bell-trinket hung below his hand. It was apparently a Chenel bracelet.

  The Chenel continued speaking. “We also extend our greetings to the Sheen profit, and wish him much balance and benevolence. Please tell him his few Chenel brothers remaining on Azaar await the reclamation alongside him, and have not forsaken the old ways.”

  “Thank you,” Brandon said as he eyeballed the bracelet, somewhat irritated. The Chenel’s entrance had broken his interrogation of the emissary at a critical moment.

  The door opened again and another Azaarian entered the room. This one looked like a general. The emissary immediately stood up. Brandon took his cue and also stood. The new arrival wore a black robe and a stern expression. He glanced back and forth between the three of them and noticed the bracelet in Brandon’s hand. Instantly he reached out for it. His motions were authoritative and needed no speech. Brandon found himself surrendering the bracelet involuntarily. He could tell this Azaarian was used to having his every whim served. Brandon knew he was in the presence of a high commander. His mission was going according to plan.

  The commander studied the bracelet, examining the charm and holding it to his ears. He then seemed to notice the identical bracelet the Chenel was wearing. He glanced back and forth between that one and the one he was holding a few times before returning it to Brandon. The commander then motioned his head toward the door. The Chenel and the emissary left the room straightaway. Still not a word had been spoken since his arrival.

  The commander came around the desk and sat down in the emissary’s chair. Brandon sat back down as well.

  “Why are you here?” he said.

  “How may I address you?” Brandon asked.

  “General. Why are you here?”

  Brandon wasn’t sure he liked this turn of events. He was supposed to be the one being blunt and direct.

  “You’ve made an unwise decision,” Brandon said.

  The general only stared. No visible reaction. This would be a tough adversary. Brandon continued.

  “You’re in league with the dark enemy. We know this. I’ve come to assure you that you’ve chosen the wrong side. The war for the Erobian Sphere looms. Soon it will rip through the stars around us, and come to the steps of our very homes. Worlds may be destroyed.”

  “The dark enemy?”

  “Yes, General. Let’s not play games. Listen. Tora does not consider Azaar to be an enemy. Not now. Just as we did not consider Latia an enemy before they fought against us alongside the enemy. There is still some time left. Time for you to become our ally instead of our enemy. But the time is growing shorter, as you well know.”

  The General studied Brandon for a moment.

  “You’re an Earthling.”

  “Correct.”

  “Where is Earth?”

  “Not relevant, General. Outside the sphere somewhere. A primitive world, in any case.”

  There was no way Brandon was about to give him any clue as to the possible location of Earth. He didn’t really know himself, except that it was beyond the far edge of the sphere.

  “How many Earthlings live in Tora?” the general asked.

  “A little more than a thousand now, counting children.”

  “You’re soft
. And frail. Alliances of war are negotiated by military commanders. Why does Tora send a member of such a minuscule minority, and a weak alien race, to openly confront us? Does Tora wish to insult Azaar?”

  “Quite the opposite, General. I came at the request of our High General as a personal favor to him. He sent me because he considers me the best he has.”

  The Azaarian general finally broke his frown as he laughed to himself. It was encouraging to see a change of emotion in him, however brief and snooty it may be.

  “Soft,” Brandon said. “Perhaps. Frail? Maybe. Who isn’t, when modern weapons are considered? But not weak. You might appreciate meeting me if you were better informed. I have personally inflicted more destruction on large Azaarian warships than any other fighter pilot in the galaxy—of any race.”

  The general’s frown returned, but Brandon recognized a subtle change in his composure. A trace of respect? The way he eyeballed Brandon was slightly different now. Brandon continued speaking.

  “Also, the High General thought it wise to send me, rather than a native Torian, because of trust issues. He hoped you would be less standoffish.”

  “He was wrong. Explain to me, if you will, exactly who this dark enemy is you so rashly accuse us of being in confederacy with.”

  This was it. The general was calling his bluff. Brandon realized his next response was critical. The success of his mission hinged upon it. This was the point where Olut6 was counting on him to come up with something clever.

  He was going to be disappointed. Brandon had nothing.

  But Brandon’s intuition told him Olut6’s apprehensions were well-founded. Something really was going on out here. The Azaarians weren’t acting right. All of them, even the Chenel, had contributed to Brandon’s growing suspicion. Whoever the dark enemy was, it was likely they had made contact with Azaar, and maybe also with some of those other worlds along the edge who had suddenly withdrawn from all interstellar activity. Was there a rational reason for this conclusion? No. But Brandon had long since learned to trust his intuition. He was, after all, famous for it back home. Perhaps that was the real reason Olut6 sent him here without a script.

  “We know they’re out here.” Brandon waved his arm in a circle.

  “Where?” the general asked. “At Azaar?”

  “Out here, in this portion of the sphere, along the outer edge. Everywhere except Dirg.”

  The general’s expression hardened when Brandon mentioned Dirg.

  “Go on.”

  “That’s it,” Brandon said. “Except that we’re not going to let this penetrate any deeper. One-third of our massive fleet now patrols this region. We’ll be bringing out another third when the time comes, which will result in a force nearly twice the size of any other world’s entire military. And we have Dirg.”

  “And the light weapon,” the general said.

  “Right. But my point is we don’t need it.”

  A slight smile formed on the general’s face. “It’s not mobile, is it?”

  “To what are you referring?”

  “The light weapon.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, General. I’m not at liberty to discuss military secrets, other than to inform you that the war will be fought in this section of the sphere, close to your own home. The choice Azaar needs to make is which side they want to be on. Will you foolishly align yourself with evil, for no other reason than your perception that evil is strong? Or will you take up the right cause, the cause of freedom for all intelligent beings, not the least of which is Azaar’s own sovereignty?”

  The general sat still for a few minutes. Brandon couldn’t come up with anything else to say, and thought it best to leave his remonstration where it stood. He noticed the general’s finger gently tapping the desk.

  Finally, the general laughed. That probably wasn’t a good sign.

  “Your High General is a clever being,” he said. “And you are admirably brave. You risked your life, your crew, and your ship on a desperate stratagem in the hopes of gaining intelligence. We know of the attack on your system several years ago, and how the identity of the attackers remained a mystery to you. So now you come here with this ploy, to try and see if we possess any information about them. I’m almost sorry to have to disappoint you. We don’t know who they were, either. I commend you on your effort, however.

  “Now I must bid you goodbye. You may tell your High General that you acted with all earnestness, and not be ashamed upon your return. But you must leave. I have granted you more leniency than I should, and will tolerate no further antics.” The Azaarian general stood.

  “I’m sorry to hear you speak like this.” Brandon stood. “I feel you are making a detrimental decision. I leave you with this hopeful promise: Tora will not consider Azaar an enemy until the first shot is fired upon us by an Azaarian gunner. Please contemplate this. There will be time to reconsider your position up until that moment. But not after.”

  The general pointed at the door. “No more, Brandon Foss. Your imagination has carried you too far from home. There will be no war with a dark enemy here, because no such entity is here. The only battles taking place at Azaar will be those with intruders who refuse to respect our privacy.”

  Brandon looked at the flute and the bracelet on the desk and thought about leaving them there. But he picked them up.

  “We’ll need several additional hours before we can distort away, General.”

  “Why?”

  “Equipment issues.”

  “I can send a team of technicians to help you affect any needed repairs.”

  “Not necessary, General. We just need a little time.”

  The General shook his head. “No. Leave orbit immediately upon returning to your ship, or we will destroy you. No more games.”

  “I can leave orbit, but we must remain in your space for a period of several hours.”

  “You test my patience, Earthling. I don’t recommend that. But I will grant you several hours in our space, removed from orbit. No more. Do not tempt me further.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  *

  “They’re continuing to amass, Commander. Five large warships, at least two dozen fighter squadrons, and some unidentified vessels as well. That’s an awfully large show of force for scaring one small transport ship away.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Brandon said. “I know I didn’t endear myself to the general down there, but he afforded me an appreciable degree of courtesy before I left. What they’re doing now I find to be irrational.”

  “Should we pull farther away?” the captain asked.

  “No. I don’t want our ITF1 crew to show up and find themselves alone and facing all that. I think we’re about as far out as we can get and expect Perry to see us when they come out of distortion drive. He’ll probably make the same approach that we initially did, so this is a good place to wait.”

  Brandon watched the magnified screen on the bridge as he wrenched his hands on the Azaarian flute repeatedly. Even on the non-magnified screen, you could see more and more objects in the space over the large planet. Azaar’s military force was continuing to build, and the clock wasn’t moving fast enough.

  Ten hours. Why did he say ten hours? He should have said seven. They had pulled out to the front side of Azaar’s far moon, near the point where they originally arrived in this star system. That was three hours ago. They still had one to go before Perry was due back. Brandon didn’t figure the Azaarian general would give him much more leeway.

  “This is going to be close,” Brandon said.

  “Yes.” The captain looked up at him. “And when the ITF1 reappears, your ruse will be exposed. They’ll know why we had to wait here, and it will take them about one second to realize no communications could have been sent home. By that time most of their fleet will be assembled, the way this is going. From what I’ve heard of Azaarians, they’re not taken to getting all dressed up for nothing.”

  “Why don’t we send another mess
age?” Milon4 asked. “To plead for another extension, or maybe leave them some coordinates to relay to our expected interstellar fighter?”

  Brandon saw the captain shudder.

  “Thanks for the suggestions Milon4, but neither of those is attractive.” Brandon paced the bridge. “No, we’ll have to wait here until they start to come at us.”

  Milon4 nodded. “Yes, Commander. What’s that pipe you’re death-gripping?”

  Brandon stopped and looked at the object in his hands.

  “A gift. Peculiar people. They offer you a present, and then kill you if you don’t leave fast enough. Then again, given the history of Azaarian gifts, Tora might be better off if we don’t make it back home with it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some kind of a wind instrument. I believe the emissary called it a …tupinx.”

  “Have you tried to play it?” Milon4 asked.

  “No!” Brandon shouted without knowing why. All the bridge personnel recoiled in their seats.

  “Sorry.”

  Brandon looked closer at the tupinx. He thought back to his middle-school days on Earth when he used to actually play the flute. There was still one in his closet somewhere when he was abducted. Sheri, his first wife, laughed at him when he tried to play it for her on one occasion. That was his only adult performance.

  Perhaps unconsciously, or perhaps from the stress of the moment, Brandon allowed his arms to raise the instrument to his mouth. As his fingers naturally found their way to the key holes, his lips formed the appropriate contortion and he began to blow. Softly at first, without taking his eyes off the video screens.

  A gentle thumping noise emitted from the tupinx. The sound made him stop blowing. The thumping ceased. Brandon looked around the bridge and saw two crewmembers cocking their heads at him. He put the instrument back to his mouth and blew a little harder this time.

  The thumping came back, at a significantly stronger volume. The Azaarian flute produced percussion beats, not flute music. That was odd. But it wasn’t a disorderly drum noise. The beats were pleasant. Brandon found it soothing. He experimented with the key holes and found he could play a pacifying progression with the different percussion sounds. It was nearly a melody.