“Yeah,” Jeremy held up a glass and downed it. Vladimir followed suit.
“My name is Sylvan,” one of them said. Honestly, Jeremy had a hard time telling them apart. “She is Salgwyn.”
The other girl nodded. Jeremy could see it then. Just a slight difference in facial angles and hair color hue.
“Twins?” Vladimir asked, pointing at each with his glass.
“In a way,” Sylvan said.
“Please,” Salgwyn said, “can we help?”
“Drink?” Vladimir held out his glass. Salgwyn held up her hand and shook her head, smiling.
“Now is time for drinking,” Vladimir proclaimed. “If you help, then you help drink.”
“We understand the confusion, but everything the Educator told you is true,” Sylvan said. “Many of the others are having a hard time adjusting to this new paradigm as well.”
“So,” Jeremy said, taking another drink. “This powerful alien species can’t be stopped. So you came to us to help?”
“Yes,” Sylvan smiled. “You’re in their path as well, and they will be here soon enough. Since we can’t stop them we thought it wise to enable you to defend yourselves.”
“Polnyi pizdets,” Vladimir muttered and downed another vodka.
“Is it wise to become intoxicated?” Salgwyn asked.
Vladimir began laughing.
“How will we prove this to anyone?” Jeremy motioned to Vladimir and himself with his drink.
“The same device that we gave to you which enabled us to bring you here,” Sylvan said, pulling out a small black cylinder. “We’ll give them to you reprogrammed for education. So that when you give it to someone they will experience the education you just have.”
“Wonderful,” Jeremy reached out to take it from her then stopped.
“It won’t work on you,” Sylvan smiled. “And it won’t work a second time on a person. So handling it once you’ve been through the process will not be an issue.”
“Great,” Jeremy took it and began examining it.
Salgwyn handed a cylinder out as well and Vladimir took it. Instead of examining it he pocketed it.
“When will you let us leave?” Vladimir asked.
“You are free to return home at any time,” Salgwyn said. “We have shuttles ready to return to you to the location we initially contacted you in.
Vladimir chucked and shook his head. He filled the glass again. Jeremy did the same. They clinked glasses and drank them both down.
“Then I see you again, Mister Jeremy Harrington. If our bosses keeps us.”
“Yes, Mister Vladimer Ogronivitch, if we’re not fired or put in prison we’ll work together again.”
The small ship rotated slightly, changing its attitude. The emptiness of space was oppressive to the crew of three reggf.
“Sensor shows three ships coming in at high warp, Rakear,” Kireegf turned from his station to face the pilot's chair. His fur was tan with grey streaks. His jowls were almost totally black, and hung low with the looseness of age. “They are of size class fifteen.”
Rakear chuckled. “Protector Ships never got to size class ten. Those that got close we avoided. Now we choose to fight instead of run, and are glad they are not the new design. I am insane, old friend.”
“No,” Kirear looked up from the weapons station to his father. “We do what we must.”
“He is right, Rakear,” Kireegf exhaled slowly through his nose. “This is no Protector chasing us away from a trader ship. These are the defilers of Tai Pan.”
“I never suspected you were a sentimentalist, Kir.”
“Nor I until now.” He turned back to his sensor station.
“They come within missile range.”
“Wait.”
“They are sending light pulses out in a search pattern.” Rakear exhaled heavily through his nose. “Even with such stupidity they still win. The Sisters are cruel. Tell me when, Kir.”
They waited, patiently. The tension of waiting pulsed through them, threatening to break their calm, send them into the rage. These were special reggf, they felt the Lust but controlled it. Theirs was space, it was them and it was a place of calm.
“Now,” Kireegf said, the weight of his voice heavy in every sound it made.
Rakear twisted the lever. He engaged the wells, joining front and rear causing bands of gravity to surround them. The pulses of light came, the protons bent and accelerated past. They remained invisible.
“Father?”
“Yes, son?”
“We could damage them and shift away.”
“How many missiles do we have?”
“Five.”
“We could get one, maybe,” Kireegf said. “We were at Tai-Pan. We saw them use their defenses. They work too well. The missiles were their idea to begin with.”
The young one looked to his panel, he ran his fingers along its freshness, its newness, a reminder of damage and loss. A reminder of twenty hours in a vacuumed ship wearing pressure suits while the body parts of one of your oldest friends floated around you. He shivered and thought of Karla. She had two of his children. They waited for a father who would never return, a father who forced his way onto a doomed mission so that he could die with his father. An honor that caused his throat to tighten in order to restrict the whine that was rising in it.
“Rakear,” Kireggf turned in his seat. “If I see you in the next life I hope one of us has a ship.”
“If not, Kir, we'll steal one.” Rakear engaged the thrusters, moving them directly into the path of the oncoming ships. “If not we'll steal one,” he repeated to himself silently.
The small ship floated, invisible, into the group of three. Too late they detected an energy surge. The antimatter explosion destroyed everything within a one light second radius.
The one-wood arced back slowly and then spun forward with great force striking the small orange ball, taking a part of the dull yellow tee with it. The ball spun as it flew, and hit a tree.
“Shit,” the old man muttered.
“Nice shot, Mister President.” The young man smiled as he picked up the golf bag.
“Fuck you, Jack.”
“Yes sir.” The young man still grinned as he followed the older.
A figure walked through the trees. The President stopped, waiting for the men to do their job. Jack quickly stepped in front of the President, speaking into his radio and pulling an Ingram from under his windbreaker. Two men approached the figure and then stopped, waving.
“It's Mister Harrington, Sir,” Jack said, relaxing.
The President continued his trek to the wayward golf ball. Harrington approached, a smile on his face.
“Good morning, Mister President.”
“I thought you were on vacation, son.” He pulled a five iron from the bag.
“I was, Sir. But I have something that I need to discuss with you.”
“It couldn't wait?” The President bent over the ball and looked up at Harrington.
“No, Sir. Jack,” Harrington turned to the younger, “I'll carry the President's bag. Why don't you take ten?”
“Yes sir,” Jack said, dropped the golf bag and walked away.
“What's so important to interrupt my game?” The President reached back and swung his whole upper torso. The head of the iron struck the ball and it sailed out of the trees into the middle of the fairway.
“This.” Harrington held out his hand.
“What,” the President squinted. The small black object in Harrington's hand was nondescript, just a small thick tube. The President walked back to the bag and slid the iron into its sleeve. “What the hell is that?”
“It's drastically important.”
The President held out his hand and Harrington dropped the object into it.
The steam was thick. Vladimir moved through heavy men wearing towels at the door. They stopped him, recognized him, and then allowed him through. Pavel Petronivitch was sitting, talking with two men in hushed tones. He saw
Vladimir approach and raised his hand. Vladimir stopped and waited, sweating furiously in his suit.
Petronivitch waved the men away and then motioned Vladimir to approach.
“What is it that is so urgent, Vlad?” Petronivitch asked, smiling. He liked to refer to Vladimir by his nickname, to make it seem like he was on Pavel’s ‘inside group’. Vladimir hated the shortened version of his name. But he never let on. You never correct the President of the Russian Federation.
“This,” Vladimir held up the small black cylinder, holding it between his thumb and index finger.
Petronivitch snorted. “What is that?”
Vladimir tossed it to him. Petronivitch gave Vladimir a look that said he better not be pulling his leg, lashed his hand out and snatched it out of midair.
President Willis “Kooper” Robertson sat on a lawn chair at a round plastic picnic table covered by a yellow umbrella supported by its pole through the center of the table. Harrington sat in the chair opposite. Before them was a bottle of Jack Daniels. Robertson filled a glass with a shaky hand and motioned to Harrington.
“No thank you sir, I’ve relieved your personal security.”
Robertson nodded and drank his glass down. It burned ever so slightly, that burn that always brought his senses back, removed the fog from his mind and centered his focus.
“I can presume this is no joke,” he said, not really to anyone, just saying it out loud.
“This is no joke sir,” Harrington said. “They call it ‘education’. It is effective.”
“Damn hell it is.” He reached out a finger to touch it, steeling himself for another onslaught of thoughts, words and images.
“It won’t work again sir.”
Robertson looked at Jeremy and touched it anyway. Nothing happened.
“They told me it’ll work on a person only once.”
“So I can give it to anyone I want?”
“Yes sir, and they’ll get the same effect you and I got from it.”
“Effective is an understatement, son.”
Jeremy chuckled. “Yes sir, I agree.”
“Everyone got one of these?”
“I suspect somewhere around a hundred or so were up there. And yes, they each had an alien counterpart and one of these things.”
“So what did they look like?”
“The aliens sir?”
Robertson nodded and poured himself another glass of Jack Daniels.
“Like ten year old girls. Each one, almost identical, but not quite, and fair, pale in their skin and hair.”
“Little girls?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all sorts of wrong.”
Jeremy chuckled. “I agree sir.” He thought it best not to tell the President of intense sense of sexual projection they had. That would just make it far worse.
“Stay close son. I want to hold onto this,” he held the object up in front of Jeremy. “I need to get some things figured out. Get my staff in the know. You hang close and loose and I’ll have some work for you when the time comes.”
“Yes sir.”
Chapter 7
Krishnae narrowed his eye slits, barely listening to the reports that droned in from the computer comm link. His mind floated, images rushing through behind his eyes, each one erratic, each one focused, each image carrying more than itself and the whole understood.
Soltyn watched him, staring at the never changing face, the eye slits that would move in ways imperceptible to her, his air slits would expand at different rates but they also moved when he spoke. She had seen his face every day. He had bestowed upon her the singular position of being with the Elder, his ombudsman to the Pyrinni Citizens of the Katsurani Empire.
Krishnae switched off the recording. He retracted his neck and exhaled. He was tired. He felt it was time for a blood oath. Power splits during war were bad but Clan Wars were worse.
“How are leaders chosen in the Compendium?” Krishnae spoke, startling Soltyn.
“We elect them by vote, Elder.”
“Them? You have more than one?”
“We have one Matriarch, elected to administrate the whole. But they administrate a collection of representatives, it is quite large. None of them have the power of the Elder.”
“Too slow,” Krishnae leaned back onto his tail. “What if a leader does wrong?”
“We vote them out,” Soltyn's voice grew curious. “Why?” Krishnae slowly spun his chair around to stare out the window. He was quiet for a long time.
“Your Canids have developed a new tactic. They destroy their ships in order to defeat us in combat.” He spoke again.
“They are desperate.”
“This is not understood by most of my leaders.” Krishnae saw ships floating in the sand; strange ships with sharp angles moving rapidly toward the unsuspecting form of Opeo. They were of strong design. They were worthy.
“The Triconitae said never surrender,” Soltyn said.
“Leaders only, warriors follow. When lost the leaders present themselves to a blood rite. Their warriors wait until the fight is over.” Krishnae turned his chair back to face Soltyn. “Did you not read the words, Soultinn?”
“Yes, but I did not fully understand their meaning.”
“Who else will we meet, Soultinn?”
She stared at him. She had no idea what he knew. She had told him everything she could, everything she knew. She wasn't sure if he believed her or not.
“After the Canids,” she said, “you'll come across many worlds. Some will have life, some will not. Some will be sentient and developed.”
“How many have spaceflight?” Krishnae narrowed his eye slits again. He had learned to read her reactions, to tell when she gave half-truths or lies. It mattered not what she said. What she didn't say told him volumes.
“Three, before you reach the Compendium.” Soltyn thought she recalled correctly. She couldn't be sure what she remembered, but she tried. “The first has only moved into their own star system. The second has the ability to travel between stars, but not true starflight. The third is red zoned.”
“Are they spartzitz?”
“None are as capable as the Canids.”
The door opened and a large Katsurani entered wearing the sash of Special Leader. He stood before Krishnae for a moment and dropped to his knees as he extended his neck. “My blood is yours, Elder.”
“You are dismissed, Soultinn,” Krishnae did not even look to her. She stood and left.
“I have read your report, Kitean,” Krishnae looked to the prostrated Katsurani before him. “You have proven to be the excellent choice for the first Leader of the Battle Cruisers. I also understand that you are a duelist.”
“Yes, Elder.” Kitean stood narrowing his eye slits in confusion.
“You were with Laitru when he killed Brontinea?” Krishnae read his reactions.
“Yes, Elder.” Kitean kept himself blank, a good Leader was not supposed to show any emotion.
“You are one of the most experienced Leaders I have, Kitean.” Krishnae leaned back on his tail and narrowed his eye slits into a smile.
“I thank you, Elder, but I am sure that there are others who excel better than I.”
“What do you think of the Canids?”
“They are worthy opponents. Worthy of the Triconitae.”
“Do you think Brontinea erred?”
“No, Elder. He-“ Kitean stopped himself.
“Speak, Leader. Tell me of the glory of Brontinea.”
“The Canids are very adept at skirmish warfare. They like to strike from the shadows. It is much like the submersible warfare of the ancients on the homeworld.”
Krishnae opened his eye slits. He had not heard any of the others mention the homeworld since their arrival. It seemed to be gone from their conversations. He turned and looked at the billowing sand.
Kitean forced his gaze away from the large window and focused on the back of Krishnae's chair. The sand confused him, brought images to
his mind that he could not control.
“Did Brontinea act as a worthy Leader?” Krishnae continued.
“I believe he did, Elder.”
“Why do you think Laitru killed him?”
“I do not question the actions of my Leaders, Elder.”
“Why?” Krishnae spun in his chair, this was a command, not a question.
“I believe that Laitru is not a Leader of the Triconitae.” Kitean felt awkward. He was involved in something that he knew nothing about. This questioning was also against the Triconitae. This was not directness of action. He felt unworthy.
“What do you think I should do, Kitean?” Krishnae's gaze pierced him as if it were a particle beam. Kitean felt that his Elder knew his mind, knew his answer before he did.
“I would not know, Elder. I am not that good of a Leader.”
“What would the Triconitae demand, Leader.”
Kitean thought. He knew the Books, the Codes, as all did. None ever read the books except the Elders and Teachers, but they recited it throughout his childhood. He heard all the tales, all the codes. He knew it.
“It would call for a test in the Arena.”
“Who would be my champion?”
Kitean finally knew why Krishnae had called him. He tried to force his eye slits open, to prevent himself from grinning, but he couldn't. The honor of being the Elder's Champion was too great.
“I choose you, Kitean.” Krishnae narrowed his eye slits into a smile again. “And I choose you for Laitru's position. I want you to be my second.”
“Elder,” Kitean stood, shocked. “I am not worthy for the position.”
“That makes you worthy, Kitean.” Krishnae spun his chair back to face the window. “Do not fail me, Leader. We have many enemies. Including the homeworld.”
Kitean stood facing the back of his Elder. Those last words struck him. He felt wrong, different, but knew the Elder was right.
“Elder,” Kitean whispered, more out of reflex than any conscious desire of his own.
“We have grown, Leader, evolved. We are still Katsurani, but we are not what we left behind.”
“I understand, Elder.” Kitean looked to the ground to avoid the sand. He knew the Clans were gone, the homeworld was gone.
Saurians Page 11