by Mark Wandrey
He got an email from a supervisor. His work was becoming unsatisfactory. Ataalan had stared at the email with amazed consternation. He did have a supervisor, and it was unhappy. One of his life goals, to do his job without notice, was in jeopardy. Ataalan realized his job might be in danger. And since he was almost supporting his entire nest back on Coorson single handedly, he decided the situation called for extreme measures. He started working harder.
Another week passed, but still he was behind, so he began coming in early, then staying late. He even ate his meager lunches in his cubicle. And it was that last step that finally began to produce results.
What he didn’t know was the intelligent automation that ran the operation had noted his increased efficiency and had begun routing the highest priority data through his queue. And so it was that he gained the attention of something he would dearly wish hadn’t noticed him.
He was just finishing his lunch. One arm fed food into his mouth, the three sets of jaws chewing the savory pieces of meat and vegetables, while the other three arms manipulated the computer interface. He understood the basics of the data he reviewed. They were high resolution, multiple spectrum scans of planets in far-flung star systems across the galaxy.
Each data packet contained specific coding elements: an identification string, a coordinate string, and a record identifier that told who had processed the final review. The reviews took him between ten minutes and several hours, depending on what sort of review it was.
He loaded a new data packet into his computer, as he did any number of times every day, while he finished the last of his lunch. He noted the high priority tag and referenced the coordinate string, calling up the baseline data. One arm packed away his food carrier by touch as his eyes scanned the data. Immediately, he noted something unusual.
The recorded baseline data included previous scans. They reviewed this location every hundred standard years, but this was the first time an operator had received the live data going back five scans. That was unusual. As he compared the new data to the last reviewed scan, it became even more unusual, so much so that he sat there for a minute and stared.
Traaga weren’t a curious species. It was a trait that made them such highly sought-after laborers. Want a job done in questionable territory, with a questionable outcome, and of a questionable legality? Hire the Traaga. Beyond the price and particulars of the contract, it was a relative certainty that they wouldn’t ask a single question or look beyond the basic requirements of their duties.
But now, Ataalan faced a serious conundrum for a Traaga. The file was flagged for review every century, and the differences between the last review (five centuries earlier) and this one were profound. He felt the stirrings of curiosity, and despite his better judgment, he followed that curiosity and called up all five of the most recent surveys.
There was the evidence. This world was uninhabited five centuries ago, and then over the intervening time massive settlements had begun taking shape, really exploding in the last century. The analysis subroutine placed the estimates at between ten and fifty million beings now living on the world.
The computer had tagged the file as ‘Within Normal Parameters, File,’ but it was evident to any being that this was not the case. How could the super powerful sorting program make such an error? It was true that double checking the program was his job, but it was normally a satisfyingly boring job. The usual errors were the computer classifying an asteroid impact crater as a new habitation or misinterpreting a flooded river valley as an industrial complex. Compared to those oversights, this was nothing short of cybernetic insanity.
He swept over the world and in a half hour cataloged eleven major cities, two hundred smaller settlements, six industrial centers, and at least two land reclamation projects involving dams and levees.
Ataalan had never wondered where the fabulous data he analyzed every day came from. Why would he? It was just a tool of his job. Did a soldier wonder about the source of his weapons? Did a physician wonder where sterile dressings came from?
He dug deeper, calling up the complete file on this mystery world. It was Class C, Type 3. Class C was an old world of limited use, and Type 3 meant it was part of a block grant of worlds to one species, though not currently licensed for a leasehold. The last time it was inhabited was nearly half a million years ago, and then only as a safehold for an un-awakened species. The star was becoming unstable. It was only a few hundred thousand years from becoming a Class D, and thus no longer of interest to his office.
Fraud was the word that came to mind. Someone has manipulated the main discretionary program to ignore changes to this world. But how was that possible? Only the great Higher-order species had access to those programs.
Ataalan sent a message through the department’s chain of command. “I have an abnormal result from the computers.” When done, he flagged the file, moved it into his personal work folder, and began the next assignment in his queue. An hour later, the supervisor appeared.
“Operator,” said a voice from the entrance to his workspace. The voice was not understandable, but he clearly heard the words from the translator pendant surgically installed on his furry ‘chest.’
Ataalan had long learned to override his species’ instinct to retract their heads into the protective bony upper torso and skitter away on powerful legs when surprised. Instead, he turned his head and regarded the being who stood there. It was a Tog, dressed only in a green and blue belt, the uniform colors of the Leaseholds Office. On the belt were a threefold nestled design of multi-colored diamonds that identified it as a supervisor.
“How can I help you, supervisor?”
The skeletally-thin centaur regarded him with its almond shaped blue-on-blue eyes. Where many beings had a mouth on their heads, the Tog only had a tiny pair of breathing slits. “You have been reviewing a file,” the Tog said in its native language, a combination of hand movements and light pulses from their specialized physiology that Ataalan’s translator rendered into Traaga. It carried a small metallic case in one dexterous hand, seemingly unaware it was there. The Tog mentioned a file number, but Ataalan already knew it was the one he’d stored.
“Yes, I am familiar with it.”
“Please access the file.”
Ataalan looked at hser for a moment before turning back to the large computer. It only took a second for his fingers to file the current task and call up the unusual one. The Tog leaned slightly closer to read the identification numbers, then removed a small, specially-made tablet from hser belt and consulted it.
“Yes, that is the file.”
“What should I do about it, supervisor. This is an unusual situation.”
The Tog turned hser head to regard Ataalan. Hser unblinking eyes conveyed no emotions whatsoever, but he was still afraid. The Tog was not a deadly species like the T’Chillen or the Tanam. The latter harbored an illogical hatred for his species that none understood. Still, the Tog were known for their deadly, detached ability to make life and death decisions. Ataalan wondered if it was because their species only had one gender. That would make him less happy. But they were calm and logical, just like his own species, and that was the reason they often worked in the Leaseholds Office.
“You are to process the file.”
“Process it for violation review?”
“No, process it as completed and move onto new tasks.”
Ataalan looked from the computer to the Tog and back again, indecision making his head pop up and down like a jack-in-the-box. He was honor bound to follow the directions of his supervisor. But he was also required to report any violations he found to the proper authorities. In this case, perhaps the War Office? Squatters were living on a licensed leasehold world. It might be a poor-quality world, but it was still illegal. He’d never had anyone with authority give an order that violated the law.
“But supervisor…”
“Why are you hesitating?” Ataalan chirped piteously and looked around, desperately wishin
g there was a tree to scramble up and hide in. “Do you not value your job?”
“I do,” he squeaked. It wasn’t his sense of honor that kept him from action, it was his species’ natural sense of inaction. Evolution taught them that the safest way to avoid getting injured was to remain still and do nothing. That instinct normally served them well in a complex bureaucracy like the Concordia Quorum.
The Tog watched him for a moment more before speaking. “You do not need to become concerned.” Hse turned the computer tablet it held and showed him a computer code. “Please enter this access number.”
Ataalan was so scared it took two tries before his computer accepted the data. When it did, it revealed access to the confidential leaseholders’ file on the world, including what species controlled the block of worlds. That data was normally hidden from an operator like him. It took a moment for him to focus on the details, but when he did, he was stunned.
“The block grant belongs to the Tog,” he said incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Why are you squatting on your own world?” He asked the question out of curiosity, and he was surprised he’d asked it.
“That is not your concern.”
“But—”
“We cannot violate the law by colonizing our own world, is that not correct?”
It was technically wrong. There was no active leasehold, but they did control the world. All the Tog had to do was file the paperwork, a simple act that took almost no time. It made no sense.
“It is not a violation of the letter of the law.”
“Good, then we agree. Process the file and continue your duties.”
“Supervisor,” he acknowledged and turned to the computer, sending the file onward as ordered, his code keyed in to approve the computer’s analysis. Now the file was his responsibility. It felt like he’d just made a mistake.
“Well done. I have been reviewing your work and will make a positive notation for your next biannual salary review.”
Ataalan said his thanks, but the Tog was already gone, leaving him feeling manipulated. But, again, he had to wonder why the Tog would be involved in a subterfuge with their own grant of worlds? Something they wanted to keep from the other Higher-order species was the obvious answer. And considering the Leaseholds Office was jointly administered by all the powerful species, the Tog were taking a huge risk if their plans were revealed.
As he returned to work on the data packet he’d put aside, Ataalan took no notice of the small, metallic case sitting on the desk next to where the Tog had stood. Within an hour, the Traaga was beginning to fall back into his wonderfully boring job, the traumatic events of the day quickly drifting to the back of his mind.
An hour later, the bomb detonated.
* * * * *
Part II
* * * * *
Chapter 1
March 3rd, 534 AE
T’Chillen Command Ship, Enigma Sector, Galactic Frontier
The two squadrons of starships faced off across half a parsec of space. Both formations were tight and prepared to do battle, but neither was willing to make the first move.
The T’Chillen fleet commander was Singh-Apal Katoosh. It was the first time he’d commanded a fleet of starships, and he was not happy with the situation. A decade earlier, he’d been in charge of a ground contingent sent in response to an incursion on their research of the Enigma star system by the Rasa.
After the theft of the ancient Lost starship, he’d been tasked with enacting their revenge against the Rasa by destroying them on their own leasehold. The arrival of the same Lost starship had spelled doom for two of their precious starships and allowed a small core of Rasa to survive their fate. If and where they now survived, none knew.
After acquitting himself well in that campaign, Katoosh was elevated from tactical commander to fleet commander and instructed in the operation of large starships. It was a great honor, considering how few of the machines the T’Chillen had. Only months earlier, the aged supreme fleet commander was killed in a duel, and Katoosh rose to take his mantle. And now this.
“Update,” he ordered from the dreadnought’s bridge.
“Tactical situation unchanged,” the technician, a female, responded. Most of the bridge crew were females. They were inferior in most ways to the more powerful, more ambitious males of the snake-like species. But when it came to patience and an aptitude for technology and sciences, the females excelled.
When he’d taken over the fleet, there had been few females on the flagship’s bridge. Not being as hidebound to his species’ sexist nature, he’d quickly checked the fleet’s personnel files and reassigned crew with complete disregard for their sex. Some of the ship’s commanders were not happy with his decisions, but fleet operational standards had already noticeably increased.
“Scans have confirmed eleven ships in the enemy squadron,” announced another female technician. “Three cruiser class, seven destroyers, and one carrier. Identity is still not confirmed.”
Katoosh nodded his massive head, the hood flaring slightly at the possibility of a fight. His fifteen ships more than outmatched the enemy, especially since he had two dreadnoughts. The problem was the carrier. He only had two squadrons of fighters, one on each dreadnought.
Fighter craft was the one area his species was sorely deficient in. There were only three fleet carriers left in their arsenal, half a dozen light carriers, and a handful of other ships capable of carrying fighters in small numbers. Not that it mattered, because they had more capacity to carry fighters than actual fighter craft.
The fact that there was a carrier in the other squadron all but identified them. It had to be a Mok-Tok contingent. The T’Chillen high command had been certain that none of the other spacefaring species knew of the existence of Enigma until then.
“Communications,” he ordered, “inform the enemy squadron that if they do not wish to engage in battle, they are to withdraw immediately.”
“Transmitting, fleet commander.”
Several million miles away the enemy ships floated impassively. Seconds stretched into minutes, and then they began to move. “Enemy maneuvering,” a tech needlessly informed him as the big tactical board showed the distant ships’ movements.
He tensed, ready to fight. Poison dripped from his tiny fangs in anticipation. But a second later, the ships swung in perfect unison, thrusting ninety degrees from their initial course, and with a series of flashes went supra-luminal. “The enemy squadron has withdrawn.”
“Acknowledged. Secure from battle stations. Disperse the fleet, monitoring scheme two. Communications, prepare a dispatch to the high command. We’re going to need more ships.”
* * *
Katoosh finished writing his report to the high command and sent it whisking through space, then curled tighter around his relaxation pedestal in his comfortable cabin, just behind the dreadnought’s bridge. How the report would reach his superiors never entered his mind. He preferred the old days as a small unit commander to all the paperwork and politics of high command. The discovery of the Mok-Tok probing the system further reinforced his distaste for his new job.
He did some of the clerical work his command position required, then ate a small meal before the reply from high command arrived. They would send him one of the T’Chillen’s incredibly rare carriers. At top speed, he could expect its arrival in just under three months, which meant the ship was more than 2,000 light-years distant. Katoosh had a feeling that wouldn’t be soon enough.
He closed the message and logged it into his personal records. He was about to leave the bridge when the communication panel once again came alive. His craned his eye stalks to look, expecting a follow-up message from the high command. Instead, it was a simple text message. “Increase your alertness.”
Katoosh turned his body as he regarded the message, a chill making his entire six-meter length shiver. His tail spike rasped across the floor, drawing a line of silver sparks. His tentacles tapped out a reply. �
��Is this the Grent again?”
“Of course.”
It had been years since the last message from the supposed overlords of the galaxy, but here they were again. Were these ghosts from time closely watching him? Did they know where he was, and what he was doing?
“My duties are well defined.”
“Your duties to us take precedence.”
“I cannot neglect my duties to the clan and my species. It is my job to safeguard this treasure-trove.”
“Why do you think you have the position you do?”
Katoosh felt anger instead of fear now. Was this ghost suggesting he was chosen as fleet commander because of them? Before he could reply, more words appeared. “Yes, that is correct. We made certain you would be where you are, fleet commander.”
“How is that possible?” he demanded, his anger only slightly tempered by the seemingly psychic response.
“Do you believe you are the only agent we have created in your species? We have agents in all places, in all governments, in all corners of the galaxy. We are everywhere.”
“Then why have I never heard of you except in legend and in fears whispered in the dark over intoxicants?”
“It is how we wish it. We have been sleeping for many years, waiting, watching.”
Waiting for what? Watching what? His mind went back to the initial message. “What am I to be alert about?”
“There are designs against your prize in that star system.” That wasn’t news to Katoosh. “It does not serve us for you to lose control of the Fire Base.”
“Then use your power to allow us access to the ships. If you are who you say you are, that should not be difficult.”
There was no reply for several long minutes, and Katoosh didn’t know what to think. Had he angered the Grent, so they would no longer speak to him? He wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. Or had he hit a sore spot? Where they as helpless to affect these powerful ships as the T’Chillen were? He was about to give up and leave when another message arrived. “There is more to this than you will be allowed to understand.”