Dark Beyond the Stars

by Patrice Fitzgerald

  All twenty hits go pretty much as planned, and when it’s over, I’ve only lost two drones. One was simply poor timing, when a large transport vehicle in India collided with the drone assigned to hit a minaret on the Taj Mahal. The second drone was taken out by an armed guard in an amusement center in the United States, just moments after it demolished a statue of an entertainer named Mickey Mouse.

  I’ll admit that seeing any sort of destruction bothers me, but the precision of these lasers is a thing of beauty. Even the full-sized Elisi ships don’t have anything as accurate, and this shuttle is one of the Lor’s older models, almost certainly built before I was born.

  What were the Lor like back then, when engineers designed equipment to take out a target with minimal damage to the surrounding area? At what point did they abandon surgical strikes in favor of the chaotic bloodbath they now leave in their wake?

  Once the remaining eighteen drones have returned to the shuttle, I reluctantly flip on the comm screens to see how XE7’s communication channels explain the attacks.

  The death count is the main thing that worries me. If it’s high, I’m going to have nightmares from the visuals that will start coming in shortly. I’ve had those from the beginning, but they’ve gotten worse now that Ryn is gone. On the other hand, if the death toll is too low and the planet fails to unite, that fact will be used against me in the inquiry that will almost certainly result.

  I resist the urge to start Sim-Ryn, partly because it’s too soon to do it again, and partly because I’m worried what his response will be. My Ryn would have agreed with every decision I’ve made, although he might have played devil’s advocate a few times to make sure we were thinking everything through carefully. The sim version, on the other hand, is much more pragmatic. He cautioned me more than once last night about veering too far from my mission plan.

  The first reports are from bystanders in the various locations who recorded the attacks. I ignore these for the time being and focus on the official reports from planetary defense systems, which dribble in over the next hour.

  They’re in a jumble of languages, most without any sort of visual. I mute the other feeds and tap the translation icon on the one at the top left. The feed is still unintelligible until I tap the decryption icon. After a moment, the system begins to relay a report from China, where the government assumes the attacks were engineered by remnants of something called the People’s Army.

  I flick through the other five regions. Two of the reports are too well encrypted for the onboard computers to descramble, so I save those for later analysis when my shuttle returns to port. The three I can follow all seem to have an automatic suspect, one domestic and two international.

  The public news coverage begins next, and at first it’s just pictures, many from the same bystanders who were transmitting the images earlier. I don’t want to see these. At this stage, they’ll just be saying what I already know. What happened, where, when.

  So I take a break and watch one of the vids I’ve been saving the entire trip, knowing I’d need a distraction until their analysis starts coming in. Then I use the exercise stand at the far end of the shuttle for twice as long as usual.

  When I come back, crappy cold food packet in hand, I check the government channels again. They’ve started to compare notes. In one case, they’ve started to point fingers, as well.

  Within hours, two different terrorist groups have publicly claimed full responsibility for all of the attacks. By the time I’m ready to sleep, that number is up to four, with two other groups claiming credit for specific targets.

  Exactly twenty-four hours after the first drone target was hit, I follow my orders and send a message from the Elisi Alliance to all affected governments and to their collective security agency. I blame the attack on the Lor and request to meet with a single representative from the planet to discuss a possible alliance. I tell them I will monitor the communications of their global Security Council for a response within two of their days.

  Once the message is sent, I move the shuttle out of orbit and pick a new location, just in case they traced the signal. I cloak and settle in while I wait for a response. There’s some chatter about my message on the official channels, but my claim isn’t deemed credible. Exactly as I expected. None of the governments relay the message I sent to their citizens. A few leaks emerge, but no one seems to be taking the possibility of an extraterrestrial attack seriously.

  I’ve just come back to the monitors after a break when I notice alerts on most of the feeds. Two additional attacks have been reported. An explosion at a shopping mall in Europe killed nearly two hundred people, with hundreds more wounded. Another attack at a resort area in South America killed nearly twice that many.

  If this had occurred two days from now, I’d have suspected that the Voshti sent another proctor to this area as soon as I told them about the chronotron pulses. But none of our ships, not even a battleship originating from an Elisi outpost, could have gotten here so quickly.

  Could the Lor have intercepted my transmission to the Voshti? Unlikely. If they’ve broken our codes, I doubt we’d have managed even our few recent victories, especially the one at Alyri where they lost two battle cruisers. And I don’t think even the Lor’s fastest transports could have gotten here in time to launch these attacks.

  The only thing I hear on public channels that’s at all insightful is the suggestion by an analyst in Europe that the two deadliest attacks were possibly caused by a terrorist group other than the one responsible for the first wave. A copycat attack, although I’d argue it’s a shoddy copy given the number of people who were killed. The news feed from South America shows rescue workers stacking mangled bodies from the resort hotel along the beach. Even though I know these aren’t the result of my targets, I feel sick. Did our testing give these groups courage they might otherwise have lacked? Or were the attacks simply accelerated while security was focused elsewhere?

  Gradually, a few of the news anchors begin mentioning the possibility of extraterrestrial involvement, but they still don’t seem to give it much credence. I’ve gotten used to their odd appearance for the most part—small heads, long bodies, tiny eyes. But one anchor looks even stranger to me, with eyes that are oddly pale, almost like water. He spends less than a minute examining the alien theory before moving on to what he views as a more likely cause: a coalition of radical feminists and eco-terrorists. The man notes that many of the attacks were on phallic symbols—his words are accompanied by images of the six tall-pointy things I included in the target list—and that many of the others targets were considered symbols of male oppression.

  His co-anchor, a female with more hair than I’ve ever seen on a humanoid, seems unconvinced, but she does note that the attack at the amusement area obliterated a statue of Mickey Mouse rather than his mate.

  I didn’t even know the creature was male or that it had a mate.

  At the end of two days, talk of alien involvement has increased, but not as much as the phallus theory. And the only attempt to communicate via the channel I suggested in my message is a burst of odd music followed by someone laughing, so I’m pretty sure it was unauthorized.

  Following the rules in the proctors’ manual, I wait until six hours after the deadline, then send a second message, this time with a two-day extension. The suggestion that they analyze the drones destroyed in the amusement area and in India is my own addition, however, very much outside the official rules. That will probably cost me if it’s discovered, which it probably will be—even the dimmest adjutant is unlikely to miss something that blatant.

  Within hours, the global chatter on government channels makes it clear that the United States and India weren’t exactly forthcoming with their allies about the existence of the downed drones. Both claim publicly that they found nothing at the scene of the attacks.

  The Indian government does send an open message on their own channel shortly before I retire for the night. They are willing to meet, but the Secur
ity Council requires unanimity of all nine permanent members, and the Indian government has been unable to convince the others. An additional day is requested.

  I don’t respond. I can’t respond. The orders on this front are clear. Deal only with the collective security group. And I’m not even especially tempted, since the India government isn’t the one housing those time travel devices.

  The comm beeps shortly after I drift off to sleep. I push myself up on one elbow, annoyed. I’m on the same time schedule as everyone at my home base, Elisi Outpost Five, so whoever is calling has to know they’re waking me, but as usual, adjutants on night shift think everyone else should be awake, too.

  “Alta 493,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Answer comm.”

  I’m surprised to see Baydel on screen, instead of one of his underlings.

  “Mila,” he says, glancing at my hair, undoubtedly mussed from the pillow. “Apologies for waking you.”

  The last time I woke to Baydel’s face on my comm screen, he informed me that Ryn was missing. Maybe he has good news this time. Maybe Ryn has been found.

  “It’s okay,” I say, running my hand through my hair to smooth it. “Have you heard something?”

  Baydel looks confused for a moment, and then it hits him. “Oh. About Ryn’s transport? No, Mila.” He hesitates for a moment. “I know it’s hard to let go of hope, but… the Lor aren’t taking prisoners these days. You know that. How’s the testing going?”

  “As I expected,” I answer truthfully, then quickly add, “but we still have time. One of the governments on their Security Council is attempting to broker a meeting, so that’s a positive sign.”

  Baydel nods absently. “I just called to notify you that an RU is headed your way. Should arrive around the time the deadline for XE7 expires.”

  I tense up, but don’t respond. A requisition unit wouldn’t normally arrive until long after I’m out of the sector. In fact, they aren’t even tasked until I formally submit my report for review and brief the requisition unit captain on the specifics of the testing. I know that recent developments in the war have sped up that timetable a bit, but this is ridiculous.

  “Which unit?”

  “The 57th,” he says. “And I know what you’re thinking, but they were closest.”

  Of course he knows what I’m thinking. It’s what any rational being would be thinking right now. Etnor Stoll commands the 57th RU, and Stoll’s idea of diplomacy is smiling before he shoots you. He’s a foul little man, half a head shorter than I am. Ryn always said that Stoll acted extra tough to make himself feel bigger.

  “Why would you—”

  “Vosht Wirth made the decision,” Baydel says.

  No surprise there, since she’s the one who asked for the coordinates and called for the vote to begin immediate testing.

  “It’s not too far off their normal route,” Baydel continues. “Stoll has been authorized to begin negotiations on the off chance that XE7 passes the test. In the more likely event of failure, he’ll have units ready to recover the device or devices, along with any other resources we need. You can return with them, if you’d like. Just dock your shuttle in their bay, and enjoy a less solitary return trip?”

  I hesitate for a moment, mouth open, trying to think of a polite way to phrase this, but there isn’t one. “Stoll is an idiot. He’s no more qualified to handle diplomacy than I am. No. I take that back, Baydel. He’s far less qualified, and you know it!”

  Baydel’s jaw tightens, but he shrugs one shoulder. “You said yourself that XE7 will probably fail the test.”

  “Yes, they probably will. And if they do, what do you think the chances are of Stoll managing to find the source of that pulse without destroying it, along with anyone who has the slightest idea how it works? He’s nearly as bad as the Lor.”

  “Wirth wants that device. She’s pretty much given Stoll an open door on this one. Told him to do whatever it takes. So, I guess my question is… do you have a better idea, Mila?” He looks at me, one eyebrow quirked slightly in challenge. “If so, now would be a good time for us to discuss it. Before Stoll and his crew get there.”

  He speaks slowly, enunciating each word.

  Oh.

  Now it’s making sense. That’s why he’s calling from his quarters, in the middle of his own normal sleep cycle, to tell me something he could have had one of the adjutants relay tomorrow morning.

  He’s looking for an alternative to Wirth’s way.

  My pulse speeds up. I’ve never set foot on an alien planet. I’m an analyst. I stay on the ship and watch their news feeds, so what I’m about to suggest goes way, way beyond my comfort level. It flat out terrifies me.

  “Maybe… I could retrieve it?”

  Chapter 4

  Elisi Shuttle Alar

  Date: 9023.23.05

  “Alta 493.” When the unit beeps, I say, “Load new data on XE7, including details of my conversation with Vosht Baydel, into sim Ryn002, and then run.”

  I rose early, even though I had to take a sleep aid to finally settle down after my talk with Baydel. He stopped short of actually authorizing the new mission, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Baydel’s not an idiot, and he wants to come out of this with a clean record if I fail. At least he ended the call by wishing me luck.

  I’ll need it. All my experience in first contact, or even on-planet observation, is secondhand from Ryn, who was an adjutant on a diplomatic mission at the beginning of the war. He didn’t seem to care much for the job, and rarely talked about it. He preferred the type of on-planet mission he had prior to the war, where he was tasked just with observing and bringing back resource samples. Biological samples, too, when they got the opportunity.

  Ryn’s experience in the field is one reason I’m going to break my promise to myself yet again. I don’t know how much he can tell me about the nuts and bolts of marching onto a planet and swiping its technology. It’s not something we generally do. But he knows more than I do.

  And all that aside, I need moral support.

  I forget to close my eyes this time, which means I’m looking directly at the spot when Ryn’s simulation shimmers into view. His face is utterly blank at first, and that lack of expression, that total absence of warmth, nearly brings me to tears.

  Then his personality module kicks in, and Sim-Ryn gives me a grimmer version of his usual smile. “This is not the best idea you’ve ever had, babe. Do you have a game plan?”

  “Only what I came up with while lying awake last night. Keep the shuttle cloaked and land on that large green area, then get inside the building without anyone noticing me. Find the source of the chronotron pulse, which I’m really hoping is portable, and get instructions for using it. Then get back to the shuttle. Easy, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Mila, there’s no way you’ll pass for a native here. You’re too short and your head is too large. Although…” He cocks his head to the side. “You might pass for a child. If you wear something over your eyes.”

  “Thanks,” I say wryly. “But I’ll be in one of the Lor suits. The ones with the cloaking units. We’ve modified them to fit Elisi now. Well, maybe not to fit, but at least the butt doesn’t drag on the ground anymore. And once I locate the device, this too-short body and too-large head might actually be evidence that I’m telling the truth.”

  “Do you think that’s going to matter? That you’re telling the truth? I mean, you’re going in to basically steal their device. Do you even have a weapon?”

  “A hand laser.”

  “That’s not a weapon! It’s a tool. Why did you tell Baydel you’d do this?”

  I give him an incredulous look, thinking my Ryn would never have asked that question. “Because it could save lives. Here, and hopefully in our sector as well.”

  “And that’s it? That’s your main motivation?” He waits, clearly expecting me to say something else, and then sighs. “It’s not because you’re thinking that turning back time would save me, too?”

&nb
sp; My throat tightens. I can’t respond at first. Eventually, I manage to ask, “How did you know?”

  “Your conversation with Baydel confirmed it.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  He actually does look okay for someone who’s just learned that he’s dead, but then… Sim-Ryn was never really alive.

  “But I was pretty sure before that,” he says. “Only your things are here in the shuttle. And… you never touch me. You move away when I try to touch you. No other explanation made sense.”

  I stare at him for a long moment, taking in his face, the little crease in his chin when he smiles. My eyes flood with tears.

  “Alta 493. End—”

  “Wait! Don’t shut me off. We need to discuss this.” He takes a few steps toward me, but I hold out my hand.

  “You’re a simulation, Ryn. You don’t need anything.”

  “No,” he says. “I guess I don’t. But I think you do. You need me to help you think this through. To help you figure out why you’ve agreed to take on what may well be a suicide mission.”

  “If doing this means I save you, that’s a bonus. The best bonus in the world. But I’d do it anyway. The children are fine, Ryn. They have their own lives, but those lives would be much better in the absence of this war. And this device could stop the war before it begins.” I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut. “I just wish I could believe it will end there, that they’ll send a message to avoid the war and leave everything else alone.”

  When I open my eyes, Ryn is directly in front of me, so close that my breath ripples his image. I step into his arms, arms that aren’t there, and when I close my eyes again, I can almost believe that I feel them.