by Trevor Wyatt
He wiped his brows and chose his words carefully. “Only, we weren’t almost wiped out because of an alien species. We did that to ourselves.”
The Nakra Commander widened his eyes. It looked like that was the universal sign for amazement at another’s stupidity.
“We used weapons of mass destruction on our own population, and we killed two fifths of our own race,” Jeryl said and paused. “We murdered 3.2 billion of our own people on our own home world.”
“You did this to yourselves? Less than two hundred eclipses ago?” Ullian asked. “And you ask us to believe in your capacity for peace?”
Jeryl sighed. The man had a point.
“We came out to space to survive what we had done to ourselves and to rebuild,” Jery replied back. “And we promised ourselves that we would never again go down the path that we had nearly finished. We would never again commit genocide on ourselves. Or each other.”
Jeryl had patched in; he knew the other captains in the fleet could hear him.
“We’ve learned our lessons, Ullian,” he said. “Our exploration of space is my species’ rallying cry that we can do better. That we must do better. And each day is a reminder that we will never go down that path again.”
There was a long silence. Jeryl could feel the eyes of the CNC crew on him.
Sure, he might have had just gone in and psychoanalyzed the human race. But it made sense to him now. More than why the Wolf Offensive did. More than the war.
Humanity could do better. They had to do better.
“We accept your offer of peace,” the Commander said with a final tone. “Thank you.”
The creature vanished from the screen.
Well, that was easy, he thought to himself.
If the Sonali liked acting like politicians, these Nakra seemed to take things at face-value.
The Sonali, he realized. They needed stop a war before it took a dangerous turn.
“Contact all ships,” he told Taylor. “Tell them it’s over. Send over a recording of my dealings with the Nakra and let them know I’ve just brokered peace between us and them.”
Taylor nodded and set to work on that.
“How long for repairs to be effected and concluded? Just so we’re operational?” he asked Ashley.
“Forty-five minutes, max,” she replied, after consulting her console.
“Shoot for twenty,” he said. “We have a genocide to stop—and time is running out.”
Jeryl
Jeryl stood in his office, watching the view screen that was linked to the main one in the CNC. He drummed his fingertips against his thigh as he stared into the vastness of space, the hull of The Seeker the only thing cutting through the darkness.
They were racing against time. There was no other way to put it. If he didn’t make it in time, he would be responsible for the slaughter of a billion people—genocide.
He really didn’t have a plan. He didn’t even know if the fact that the Sonali weren’t responsible for the destruction of The Mariner would change the outcome of the war. The war was now being fueled by the burning desire of the Sonali to see mankind wiped out of the surface of the universe and by the human’s deep-seated hatred for the Sonali people. Like a lit bush that spread to engulf an entire forest, the conflict may had reached the point of no return.
Still, he had to try. If he didn’t, then the point of no return would be long behind them. But how did he stop this? How did he prevent the deaths of a billion of Sonali in one fell swoop?
How did he get two warring races, which had been so hell-bent on destroying each other, to consider the option of peace? That was why he was inside his office—he had taken time off the CNC to review his options.
Jeryl had been here for more time than he intended, and he still didn’t have a credible plan. And yet he knew he must stop the Wolf Offensive. If it pushed through, it would be the one blunder that history would never forgive humanity for.
They had learned that there were more intelligent species in the universe. They had already fought with two: the Sonali and the Nakra. There were many more: some were large regional powers that they discovered had borders intersecting humanity’s like the Drupadi Regime, the Children of Zorm, the Tyreesian Collective, the Reznak Empire. Others were non-aligned and much more provincial. They stayed out of their “little” war with the Sonali to probably judge their advancement as a species.
If they went ahead to commit this great atrocity…well, who knew what might happen? As far as Jeryl knew, if the Wolf Offensive happened, they could be opening up a Pandora’s Box that heralded an age of unmitigated warfare.
That’d be just great, wouldn’t it?
Welcome humanity to the galactic community of species—but unlike other races who entered peacefully, humanity would usher in an era of conflict. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He could feel a migraine brewing inside his skull.
Ashley was in CNC, managing the final repair efforts. Apparently, the forty-five minutes repair time she had given him right after they defeated the Nakra ship was to get the FTL drive working. After that, she had to begin repairs on the affected decks that were attacked by the blast. He looked up on his tablet and saw her report saying that the ship was up to 86% functionality. She estimated that full functionality would require another full day.
Nevertheless, they were hurtling towards the battle ground at a reduced FTL factor. This was the maximum the ship could take at its present level before it broke apart. They would all tumble into space, bodies among the wreckage.
“How do I get these people to hold back?” He asked himself out loud, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. It sounded exhausted. When was the last time he slept?
And in addition, a migraine.
Fuck.
What if the Sonali refused to cooperate despite his revelation? What if they decided it was humanity’s assumption that led to this bloody war and that Earth’s children were to blame for all of it? What if they decided to fight on, or to call on to the scene some universal criminal court?
If there existed a unifying all-powerful body in Terran Union, one that ensured law and order in the worlds and colonies within the Union, then it stood to reason that the greater galaxy should have one. Jeryl realized, then, that it was his responsibility to ensure that everyone agreed to a cease-fire.
At this point, it was the best option for everybody.
Ashley walked into his office, Dr. Lannigan and Commander Taylor in tow.
“What’s your status?” he asked them.
“Repairs are proceeding slowly, sir,” Ashley said. She motioned towards the two people she came with and continued, “They have something to say about our proposed line of attack.”
Jeryl frowned.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a proposed line of attack?”
He realized that he should be discussing this issue with his senior officers. Recently, he had been making a lot of decisions on the fly without first consulting them. It went against Armada policy and culture, though it wasn’t exactly illegal—a captain was well able to conduct the business of the ship in whatever way he deemed fit. But he didn’t want to be that kind of captain.
“Sir, I have thought about our predicament,” Dr. Lannigan said. “We were merely wondering what you intend to do about it. We’re currently running an interception course. I hardly think that running into the middle of battle and yelling that the Sonali aren’t the cause of the war and that you’re not going to be firing on them is going to bring peace.”
He snapped back to attention and looked up at the doctor. Something about how he said it made Jeryl’s brain fire up.
“You’re not actually considering that, are you?” Ashley said with a cautionary tone.
“I meant it as a sarcastic joke, Captain,” Dr. Lannigan affirmed. But Jeryl wasn’t looking at them. He didn’t want to hear their doubt. There was only one thing he cared about right now.
He didn’t have a plan, and now he did…as bad of
a plan as it might be.
Even though he was all for integrative decision-making, there were some decisions that were the captain’s prerogative. This was one of these decisions.
He looked at Ashley, then Lannigan and finally Taylor.
“You’re dismissed. Report to CNC and ask all CNC crew not present to report there immediately.”
He picked up his tablet and looked up the report from navigation. According to the navigator’s estimations, they were going to be materializing in the center of the battlefield, just few minutes before the Terran Armada arrived. He looked for their ETA and saw that they had less than twenty minutes before they arrived at their destination.
That was exactly how long he had to fine-tune his plans.
He returned to the CNC with only three minutes to spare. He sat in his command chair and took a look at his senior officers and other members of the CNC crew. He could see the strain in their bodies and the tiredness in their eyes. They had been working tirelessly for the past couple of weeks. A lot of these people were with Jeryl when the war started, and they were still with him now as it neared its completion.
He knew that even though his decisions could be reckless, he would always have their support. He knew that even though some might disagree with his orders, they would always carry them. He didn’t know if captains worried about mutiny happening in other ships, like the incident that caused the Armada to send out Captain’s Guards; he did know, however, that mutiny was an impossibility on his ship.
“Taylor, can you get me an open channel communication to both Sonali and Armada ship? Broadcast to all ships at once?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “It’s going to take a few minutes to reconfigure the communications arrays to broadcast at two frequencies at the same time.”
“You have one minute,” he said.
She nodded and went to work, her hands flying over the console.
He looked up at the view screen as the navigator announced, “We’re dropping out of FTL factor seven in ten seconds.”
He went ahead to count down and then they appeared at the edge of the star system containing the Sonali planet, a purple sphere glinting below them.
“Sir, I’m picking up a large number of Sonali and Armada ships headed to each other from opposite sides…and we’re right in the middle of them.”
Dr. Lannigan announced in a crisp voice.
“They will be upon us in less than two minutes,” the tactical officer said.
“Moira!” he said, “Now!”
“Channel open, sir, please proceed.”
“This is Captain Jeryl Montgomery of The Seeker,” he said out loud.
“I call for a ceasefire. I repeat, I call for a ceasefire between the Sonali and humans. This war shouldn’t have been fought in the first place. Ceasefire, I repeat, ceasefire!”
“Sir, we are getting an incoming transmission from Admiral Flynn,” Moira announced.
“Put him through and keep the line open,” he replied.
“Jeryl, what the fuck is going on?” The Admiral asked me. His eyes were wide and tired, dark bags under them.
“Sir, I have hard evidence that the Sonali weren’t responsible for the destruction of The Mariner. This whole war was predicated on a lie. This is an open channel and all Sonali vessel can hear me. I will no longer be firing upon Sonali vessels. They are innocent.”
Well… that should really make everyone sit up and take notice, thought the Captain.
Admiral Flynn
There were perks that came along with being named Area Admiral, and one of them was the view from Admiral Flynn’s sumptuous new office in Armada Command on New Washington. He oversaw operations on the Edoris, Malvelis, and Erdune Sectors.
Back on Earth, he had a hole in the wall, high rank or no high rank. Of course, in those days they didn’t have time to think about things like that. They were too busy fighting the blue-faces. Back then he wouldn’t have had the time to even glance out a window if he had one. But here they were, two years after the war’s end, and it was back to pondering things like, “Cherry or oak furniture?” and “Taupe or white walls?”
Admiral Flynn supposed that was good in a way. But he let his aide make those kinds of decisions, because honestly, he didn’t give a gonch’s ass what color the walls were. He was happy to have walls at all. He thought most people are.
They’d been rebuilding their infrastructure following the cessation of hostilities. He found it discomforting and aggravating to be working side by side, in some cases, with Sonali engineers on these reconstruction projects here on New Washington. On Earth, layers of bureaucracy would insulate him from contact with them. Now, here, he had to suck it up. He had to work with them, but he didn’t have to like them.
New Washington was one of the most Earthlike of the colony worlds, a real showcase of urban and agricultural planning. There used to be a city on Earth called Brasilia, the capital of the old South American nation Brazil. It was built in the jungle from the ground up and was supposed to be a shining example of modernity.
It almost worked. Brasilia ended up like most cities of the time: a combination of magnificent civic structures and poverty-stricken neighborhoods you wouldn’t want to walk in at night. As an observer commented at the time, “Nothing dates faster than people's fantasies about the future.”
But, Flynn must admit to himself, they’ve done a helluva job here on New Washington.
This star system was the hub of trade routes linking the Inner Core and the Farther Reaches, which were the regions beyond the Outer Colonies, the old limits of Terran-controlled space, to Sonali territory and the inhabited systems beyond. It was a genuine gateway world, an economic and political powerhouse in the fastest growing sectors of space in the Union, and so it needed to look like one.
Given its clement climate, New Washington was perfectly suited to be an interstellar showpiece, which it was; but it had paradoxically become the most industrialized of the colony worlds.
What he saw from his window on the 115th floor was an unbroken stretch of spires and towers. New Washington was the only city on the planet—mainly because the city took up most of the available land on the planet. The city built up as it was built out, and commerce and industrialism reigned no matter which way he turned. From space it looked like a glittering white jewel in a setting of green. There was nothing like it anywhere in the galaxy.
Flynn saw a Wesallian yacht pass majestically overhead. The Wesallians were but one of the 97 races of extraterrestrials they had met in the past eight years since First Contact with the Sonali. He couldn’t say they knew any of them as well as they knew the Sonali—a knowledge born of war, of course, so he was glad they hadn’t gotten to know the others that way.
Their scientists had lifetimes of information to parse and study. Advanced medical knowledge and improved FTL travel were only two of the areas that had seen enormous development. The corpers were delighted, too, because vast new markets had opened up for them, leading to untold wealth.
All in all, the Union was seeing peaceful days, for the most part. Oh, there were a few border skirmishes, the odd uprising here and there, and there were always pirates that needed to be dealt with, but overall, old dogs like him hadn’t got a lot to do these days.
Which was why he was here on New Washington, pushing papers and pressing the flesh as a diplomat. It was not a position he particularly enjoyed, but he supposed he would get used to it in time.
His door chimed and Flynn turned to see Admiral Jeryl Montgomery walking in.
“Hello, Admiral!” he said. They shook hands warmly. “Jeryl, it’s good to see you.”
“Thanks, Howard,” the old captain said. Flynn knew Jeryl was still a little bit uncomfortable using his given name, but he insisted. The older admiral still outranked him, but not by a lot. They were both at the upper levels of command, and they shared campaigns and heartbreak all throughout the war. They’d been through too much together to not use first name
s—in private, anyway.
“How's Ashley?” he asked, taking a couple of glasses and a bottle of genuine Kentucky bourbon out of his desk.
He asked this while he poured. Flynn knew the answer, because he made it his business to keep tabs on both of them. But he was drawing the new admiral out.
He took a healthy drink before replying. “She’s Captain Gavin now, serving aboard The Seeker,” he said, and then sighed. “It happens to be in orbit around New Washington right now, so we’ll have some time together before she has to ship out. We don’t see each other very often these days, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to hear that, son.”
“Thanks. It’s put a strain on the marriage.”
“Do you ever think of having children?”
He laughed, and Flynn detected a rueful tinge to it.
“I don’t think that’s in the cards for us, unless we do it by surrogates, and then who’d be raising the kids?”
He shrugged. “Hired help. That’s not how we’d want to do it. Anyway, we’ve got time to think about it.”
Flynn made a noncommittal noise that hid the stab of pity he felt for Jeryl. He knew how hard it was to maintain a life dedicated for serving one’s race. Now, he was learning the bitterness that came with no longer being needed in that capacity. But he wouldn’t tell Jeryl about that. He would find that out for himself one day.
“So tell me about the negotiations,” he said. Flynn knew he had been working tirelessly this past year to create what was being called a Galactic Council. It would receive a formal name once it got out of orbit. These years after the war had seen such an increase in trade and contact with other races that a special body needs to be created to oversee it all, as well as the immigration of aliens into the Union. There were, after all, many worlds in Union-controlled space that were unsuitable for human colonization—too hot, too cold—but perfect for the needs of non-humans. The humans had no objection to them developing unused real estate, but they needed to keep an eye on what they were doing.