The Shadow Among The Stars

by Dylan Sanchez

  Once the lifter was clamped to the underside of the Hermes, they approached the gate and prepared for Compression. The sheer vastness of space and the titanic dimensions of the gate made the constant motion of the emitters appear stately or even sluggish, when in fact they traveled the inner circumference of the structure at an almost unthinkable velocity. The massive power generator mounted to each emitter caused the entire construct to glow in a lurid blue-white light. The moment of gate dilation was a comparatively brief instant where a catastrophic amount of energy bridged the distance between two gates that were otherwise hundreds of light-years apart. The appearance of the Compression phenomenon itself manifested as a round splotch of utter blackness rimmed in a brilliant band of the local light as it was drawn inward through the gate.

  Despite the incredible forces at play, the actual experience of passing through was as uneventful as walking through a doorway and perceived by most passengers as a black flash as infinitesimal as blinking. The Hermes slid through the gate straight into the Tereshkova System, home to the nearest major Marine base. Gate Tereshkova was minded by two Astral Marine Gun-forts bristling with anti-starship weaponry. A dozen patrolling Monitor ships stood ready as the Hermes transmitted Bryluen’s Identify-Friend-or-Foe registry. Within the next fifteen minutes Bryluen had offloaded onto a CSOE private transport, while the Marines—both living and dead—were taken by the lifter to Tereshkova Marine Base. Routine post-contact counseling and duty review was scheduled in the case of Sergeant Audra. Even had Bryluen not sent her commendations, Audra was certain to be looked upon favorably by the review board.

  The private shuttle hitched a ride back through Gate Tereshkova to the Corax system, where Bryluen’s home and therefore her base of operations was located. The Operative lived on the sparsely inhabited world of Aves Prime high up the slope of Mount Cunicularia. Her residence, known as Raven’s Landing, was a group of circular structures jutting from the mountainside like a cluster of shelf fungi.

  One of the round structures was a sizable landing pad where Bryluen was offloaded by the shuttle, which promptly turned about and returned to ride the Hermes back out of system. On Aves Prime it was early morning, the coming day presaged by a marching line of warm gold. As the light passed over the curled branches of the rolling forest below, hundreds of blossoms burst open in a bewildering array of green, magenta, and yellow. Where the trees thinned out up the slope of the mountain, orange grasses waved in a gentle breeze around reddish shrubs. The gentle creak and squeal of the waking trees was carried upward on a soft wind. The forest branches slowly unfurled and reached upward as they bathed in the warmth of the local star.

  An Operative was an incredibly rare individual with extensive operational freedom dispatched by the CSOE when a situation required the utmost care, attention, and skill. There were fewer than three hundred Operatives active at one time, and each was afforded the utmost cooperation and respect by any Human authorities. Operatives were extensively trained and educated in diplomacy, wilderness survival, linguistics, psychology, sociology, philosophy, law, history, and numerous martial disciplines, not to mention an increasingly esoteric range of other skills acquired over time or for particular assignments. Dame Branok in particular trailed honors and awards wherever she went, and held a reputation for politesse and class as much as she did for being a natural leader and a fine tactician. Her claims to fame included a number of high-profile missions, not the least of which was a particularly witty and bloodless defeat of a T’hròstag battle-host that led straight into ceasefire negotiations. Numerous CSOE advertisements and posters bore her image, and the CSOE website was forced to add a question about her marriage status to the FAQ pages after repeated inquiries.

  Bryluen gazed out over the colorful panorama around her as she strode over to the hatch leading inside from the landing pad. Within she was greeted by a cool stone interior—aside from defensive additions and hidden structural supports, the building materials of the structure were all natural and local. The parts of the house extending from the mountainside had in fact been created from the stone quarried to create the interior rooms. The overall aesthetic of the structure was minimalistic, and emphasized the beauty of the materials and surroundings. Counter tops, shelves, and any decorative structures were made of wood taken from dead or dying trees in the surrounding forest, while live trees that had been on the construction site had been migrated elsewhere. Much of the home would have been open to the elements due to panoramic gaps along the outer structure if not for the energetic fields used in place of windows. This afforded an unimpeded scenic view of the endless miles of forest outside.

  As both a residence, place of work, and occasionally a site of diplomatic efforts, Raven’s Landing not only bore a comfortable bedroom and bathroom, but a lounge with a bar and automated food dispensary, exercise room, office, library, and meeting room. Bryluen could perform research, conduct interviews, and question suspects or information sources for months on end without leaving—any supplies she may need were delivered on a regular schedule by automated delivery craft.

  Just inside the landing pad hatch was a short corridor connecting to the main lobby. A stand stood in an alcove by the door awaiting Bryluen’s armor suit. She sighed as she dutifully stopped in front of it, beginning to detach pieces of her armor and store them on the rack. Underneath her armor, she was clad in gray athletic wear, revealing the hint of a colorful tattoo on the outside of her right leg. On the back of her neck, she bore a monochromatic design centered around the date she first became an Operative in luxurious script. Every limb and part of her body featured an assortment of scars from endless encounters with numerous threats. A notable slash along her right side created a cross-hatching pattern where it passed through the faded stretch marks at her waist line.

  She padded on bare feet into the main hub of the home, a round spacious lobby with an open roof beneath which sat a large fountain. Extending from the lobby in all directions were side chambers and hallways connecting to all the other areas of Raven’s Landing. The moment she passed into the lobby, the fountain began cycling water like an excited dog awaiting its master. Bryluen took a deep breath of the cleanly, comforting scents of home. She proceeded straight to a side corridor delving into the mountain that terminated in the entrance to her bedroom.

  Her room was a quiet sanctuary tastefully bedecked in wooden furnishings of the same provenance as the rest of the house and thick, soft carpet. A large four-poster bed layered in black blankets and white pillows dominated the center of the room, with a handsomely carved nightstand on either side. A screen was mounted on the wall opposite the end of the bed, and a tall wardrobe in the corner contained the entirety of Bryluen’s clothing. In a back corner was an old-style swinging door to her bathroom, which itself was rough-hewn from the surrounding rock such that it resembled a cavern. A spacious tub was carved into the center of the bathroom like an altar, and a large shower array was built into the back wall. The much less glamorous toilet was sequestered in a secondary chamber.

  Bryluen reached down to the control panel on the tub, and set it to fill itself and warm up before she entered the toilet chamber in order to slip into the black bathing suit she kept there. Within ten minutes, she was relaxing in her tub surrounded by bubbles as the water was soothingly stirred about her by a series of jets. She sat her head back into a rest carved into the rim of the tub, and breathed in quiet contemplation for a long while as the tension in her body steadily melted away. Bryluen felt uncomfortable speaking to her superiors while naked, so due to the urgency and importance of her job she unfailingly bathed wearing garments of some form. This morning, as with many others, her diligence in doing so was rewarded.

  A hologram roughly a meter and a half across suddenly unfolded from a projector mounted to the opposite end of the bathtub. It was a standard message, numerous variants of which Bryluen had seen looming over her bath time through the years. She had often taken and made calls from her bath, whether queryi
ng with CSOE data-miners or submitting reports to her superiors. Video conferencing was as common as exchanging text reports, and even then face-to-face conversations usually took place to supplement such reports. In the case of this particular call, though, the identity of the sender was unusually important—even for her. She sat upright as the initial message unfurled.

  *URGENT COMMUNIQUE*

  THIS CONTACT IS FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

  ***

  SENDER: CSOE HIGH COMMAND (7 ATTENDING)

  HAS REQUESTED VIDEO CONTACT.

  ***

  AUTO-CONFIRMATION IN 10 SECONDS

  The CSOE knew she had just returned home to rest, so they wouldn’t assign her another mission unless it was circumstances were dire. They might request a special report, have some unresolved questions, or even ask for her input on one of the many initiatives undertaken by the CSOE—but that would be done through a Handler or Briefing channel. An urgent meeting with the entirety of High Command was rare, even for an Operative of her esteem.

  She took a breath and addressed the projector. "Confirm: High Command, what can I do for you?"

  The text flashed green and resolved into a split video feed of all seven members of CSOE High Command, reporting in from various locales across Human Space. In any other organization it might be strange that Bryluen was actively washing herself at the time, but an urgent communique was an urgent communique.

  She sometimes smiled at the thought of how many naked Operatives High Command had seen and taken perfectly seriously regardless—not all Operatives felt the need to cling onto some form of modesty, and such was the intensity of their job that High Command had a standing rule not to pressure them into doing so. They relied on their Operatives to be as comfortable as possible, given the other sacrifices that went into taking the job. Additionally, the grim and intensive tasks High Command itself dealt with meant occasional nudity was by far the least of their concerns.

  The CSOE High Commander Galmaan Maahir Cabdinuur was sitting in his office at the CSOE Central Headquarters, in orbit around Proxima Centauri. He was an older gentleman, dark-skinned and dour with a shaved head and a short beard of white and silver fuzz.

  His voice was a cool rumble of surgical pronunciation. "Dame Branok, we know you have recently returned from responding to the UASC station encounter. We have already been appraised of both your initial findings, and find them to correlate with several similar instances on a smaller scale in not only our space but in that of the Qixing Commonwealth and another in T’hròstag space over the course of the past several weeks. Leads on previous occurrences are being investigated, but the particulars are eerily similar in each case. The Qixing Gate Sentinels have also confirmed slight fluctuations of standard energy signatures at times that could reasonably have preceded these attacks, though if this threat is using the gates their exact methodology is unknown—as you well know, the Sentinels let nothing pass through unscrutinized. The pattern of occurrences appears to demonstrate a steady escalation of force, culminating in the attack you responded to.

  “Acting on this intelligence, Councilwoman Braynard summoned High Command to an Emergency Strategic Response meeting two hours ago. We have elected to open a High Dispensation Quick-Response Initiative to learn more about this threat and to counter it to whatever degree is necessary, as well as provide counsel on how to organize available resources to counter this threat wherever the Initiative cannot be present. We are calling this Initiative ’Dread Naught’. We have chosen by unanimous vote to offer you the chance to lead it."

  Bryluen took in a deep breath. "High Commander, I would be honored. What Discretionary Framework must I begin with?"

  Councilwoman Braynard was a small and intense woman with a billow of blonde hair, who spoke from the video feed to the High Commander’s right. "None. As our most decorated Senior Operative and having seen the nature of the threat at hand, we entrust the organization and methodology of this Initiative to you. Do you have any initial requests?"

  Bryluen made eye contact with Braynard and nodded, crossing her soapy arms. A glob of shampoo fell down the side of her head. "I do. I want the Initiative based out of Raven’s Landing with necessary structural extensions for berthing a long-term Strike Team. That means targeted amenities, a permanent transport solution, and hardened direct-contact lines for liaisons. As well, I request the Strike Team be manned according to my choice of individuals within Human space—under deferred legality if needed. I will handle the recruitment contacts myself."

  The High Commander nodded. "Excuse us while we discuss your requests."

  The video feeds of High Command switched to a Hold message bearing the CSOE symbol: a gauntlet gripping a flag over a backdrop of a stylized Milky Way galaxy. Bryluen finished scrubbing her legs in the tub while the council convened, her eyes casually gazing over dozens of minor scars and the lavish tattoo running down length of her outer thigh. After roughly five minutes, High Command returned and affirmed each of Bryluen’s requests. Each Council member signed off in conclusion, with the last being the High Commander himself. He tersely wished Bryluen luck before leaving her alone to her thoughts.

  She reached over to the bathtub control console situated to her left and queued herself a shot of whisky. She also used the console to activate a small control surface to her right that manned the large projector, and used it to begin sifting through various personnel files and reports. She rapidly organized the files of possible inclusions on the Strike Team to eventually be whittled down to a small starting squad. She not only considered CSOE contacts and Marine personnel, but also a broad selection of otherwise unaffiliated individuals whose personalities and skills could potentially match the task ahead. In her opinion, no training could ever truly prepare someone for a task as demanding and high-pressure as a CSOE initiative without the requisite strength of character and ideals.

  Not everyone was made to withstand an environment in which the daily potential for combat was as high as the chance of having to perform delicate negotiations. Bryluen kept herself sane through a number of methods of relaxation, but most of all her temperament was simply an ideal fit for the duties expected of her.

  She was invigorated by risk, felt alive when under pressure, received a cool sense of satisfaction from matching her wits with another, and was always driven forward by unbreakable ethics. She recalled most people would not have smiled in the face of peril as she did during her asteroid redirect mission over Roth’s World. As the engineers affixed the attitude thrusters to the rock, it had been discovered a hibernating population of parasitic creatures was awakening inside the asteroid. A dizzying zero-gravity battle with the creatures had ensued to buy the engineers time to finish their task. As she and the engineers were ferried away from the asteroid, watching the thrusters alter its course, she clearly recalled thinking she needed a cold shower.

  With a gentle hum a small round drone flew into the bathroom from a hatchway set high into the wall, and delivered a tumbler of whisky to Bryluen’s open hand. Sleep could wait.

  4. The Vigilante and the Vortex

  The veil of a peaceful night had descended over Paris. A sprawling metropolis like the ancient French capital never quite found silence—on an eve like this, in fact, Paris felt more alive than during the day. Among the alleys and back roads, beneath bright street lights, and within the inky shadows of weathered stone monuments, the hiss of shoes brushing cobblestone and the quiet murmurs of distant voices blurred into a great, never-ending breath. The headlights of rail cars rippled up each side of the river Seine like signals along a synapse. A lone man powered along the Pont des Arts, his broad stride swiftly propelling him down the length of the bridge. The man was clad in black, tight-fitting athletic wear from his head to his toes. His thick-soled boots were framed by compact hydraulic lifts that granted his stride extra force. Even in the dark an air of youthful mischief played across every corner of his face, and each flash of his pearly teeth appeared as if he had swallowed a lighthouse.<
br />
  He found the venerable bridge was always best viewed at night, as during the day it was often packed with tourists. Even at this late hour a couple held hands and looked out across the still waters together, their combined silhouette stark against the moonlit backdrop of the Institut De France. They had placed an antique padlock on a pile of its kin next to one of the bridge supports. Over time, the rails of the bridge had been replaced by clear polymer panels to deter the tradition of "Love Locks" placed here by thousands of romantics each year. In past times, the bridge had been badly damaged and even suffered partial collapses from the sheer weight of the locks attached to the bridge. Now with nowhere to affix them, the Love Locks were piled at the sides of the Pont des Arts in great stacks which were regularly swept away by the authorities.

  From the long bridge, the man sprinted through narrow side-streets and alleyways. With ease he left the ground to sail over a mailbox before he began to rebound from high curbs and drainage pipes, swinging from window sills and flag poles with the breezy air of a stroll through the park. He hurtled along as if weightless and unstoppable, bouncing high from a trash bin to grasp the bottom of a fire escape. With no loss in momentum he swung his legs up and over the rail overhead, and soon found himself bounding two steps at a time up the winding metal stairs. At the fifth story balcony, he paused and rapped on the chipped door in a patterned, triplicate rhythm, keeping his body tensed. After a moment, he heard a response pattern and relaxed slightly. The door creaked open, the person on the other side of the door nervous about the clandestine encounter. The hand of a young woman sheepishly extended from the shadows, holding a number of bank notes. The man genteelly kissed her hand before politely taking her donation. With no more formalities, he continued up the fire escape stairs at a run as the woman and an unseen man giggled and closed the door.