by Nick Cole
But not Prisma, even though she knew the lines were there and saw them sometimes when she caught him unawares. When he was reading. Or staring out at any one of the many alien horizons on all the worlds on which he’d served the Republic’s diplomatic corps. In those moments she could see the haunted look he so desperately tried to hide with a quick smile, a soft chuckle, or a friendly question meant to distract.
Of all the things Prisma would ever learn about him, even things that were at odds with what she knew, or thought she knew, to the end she would’ve told you he was the kindest man who ever walked the galaxy.
She would think that until the end.
Despite everything that would happen.
Deep down inside, he was a kind man. Her daddy… was a kind man.
He stood. They had arrived at the back end of the Republic, in some no-name sector no one cared about back on Utopian, or any of the other glittering capital worlds that held sway. And even in these circumstances, Kael Maydoon looked every inch the Republican diplomatic governor arrived to administer and oversee. Crisp white uniform and silver diplomatic sash with all his medals. Short, silver-trimmed cape. Polished high black boots. No weapon. No blaster. That he’d come in the name of the Republic, in peace, was enough to guarantee his safety in a galaxy ruled by just one government.
“C’mon now,” he said to Prisma. “Let’s go see our new home. We’ve got a lot of exploring to do. A lot of living to catch up on.”
What they found after the long walk into Bacci Cantara wasn’t much of a city, or even a settlement. It was nothing more than a few streets and some fair-trade establishments the desert rats came in to do business with. The governor’s mansion was a wind-battered old bunker that served as the official seat of power for the Republic. At the edge of Bacci Cantara, up along the town’s main street, past cantinas and other enigmatic businesses, it waited beneath a high, rocky cliff that would provide shade in the late afternoons of the burning days on Wayste.
Their new home.
Kael Maydoon produced a credentials data globe and inserted it into the ancient lock to the right of the massive security door that guarded the entrance to the bunker. A moment later the house unlocked, and the impressive security door swung wide open.
“That’s a big door, Daddy!” Prisma whispered as it swung out into the hot desert air.
“It is, Prisma. Nothing will ever get to us through that. This house is a very safe house. The Republic wants us to be safe, because what we do here is very important to the galaxy. So we have to be protected. No matter what.”
Beyond the doors, within the dark of the bunker, two giant bots, bigger than KRS-88, lumbered forward to greet the new sector diplomatic governor.
“Long live the Republic, sire,” rumbled the first war bot.
Prisma had seen many bots in her time on ships and other worlds. These were older models than any she’d ever seen. As though they’d been kept because no one had gotten around to replacing them yet—or perhaps because no one had come out this far, so near the edge of the galaxy, to swap them out. Even so, they were still very fierce-looking. Huge iron fists. Deployable tri-barrel blasters and micro-missiles. Squat heads. Broad-shouldered torsos. She’d once heard Republican soldiers refer to bots like these as “hulks.”
“I am HB-2505…” rumbled the first war bot loudly. “And this is my companion, HB-2506. We protect and defend the governor and this residence. Standard protocols are in effect. Do you have any special instructions at this time, Your Grace?”
Kael Maydoon seemed uncomfortable with this title. “No. N-none,” he stuttered. He’d been caught off guard. Hesitated. But he regained himself, and the moment, as he issued his first directive. “Raise the flag and prepare this residence for occupation, two-five-oh-five. The Republic is here to serve the sector and the people of Wayste.”
“By your command, Your Grace,” rumbled the automated killing machine as it turned toward its tasks. The two big war bots lumbered out the main door.
Though it was not big, or grand, the governor’s residence was everything Prisma had ever wanted in a home. A place to do all the things she’d dreamed of doing. A place of their own. And the most important thing was, they would never have to leave again. Here was where they would be a family.
Finally.
She took a deep breath, her tiny shoulders rising. Kael Maydoon saw this and smiled to himself. And then she exhaled, letting everything, all the worry and fear… go. It was as if, to Kael Maydoon, the weight of the galaxy, held on his daughter’s shoulders, flew through the massive doors that would keep them safe, and ran off into the desert.
Kael Maydoon felt that he saw this. He’d seen many strange things across the galaxy. He saw this, and he told that evil spirit to never come back. To never bother his daughter again.
He remembered something then. Something Prisma’s mother had made him promise.
“Be a family, Kael. No matter what happens.”
His voice was a whisper as he said these words and watched that evil spirit disappear into those iron-gray mountains along the distant horizon. His eyes were wet. Then he smiled and quick-changed back into the man he wanted the galaxy to see. He’d become a master at wearing such disguises. Life and death often depending.
Prisma was looking around at the Spartan living quarters. All the new surfaces and spaces to be explored. She knew there was a room just for her somewhere within it. He’d promised her that. A place for her to keep her collections. She was always forever collecting.
“A family then,” he whispered to the silence as Prisma ran off to find her new room. “No matter what happens.” And he smiled.
***
Two days.
Those two days before the shooting started were the best two days of Prisma’s life.
The townspeople of Bacci Cantara came, bringing local foods and imported delicacies, along with gifts for the new Republican diplomatic governor. That first night there was an impromptu party under the few stars this far out near the edge. The low moon rode across the sky like a burning bright world of fantasy, making everything blue.
The local people were so kind.
Her father shined, answering all the questions about their future, as far as the Republic was concerned, with the ease and promises of a better tomorrow. And later, as the last of the townspeople faded into the blue darkness, as the slow-moving moon fell into the distant shadowy horizon, her father turned to her. He said, “We’re off to a good start now, Poppet.”
Which was what he called Prisma, sometimes.
She had no idea why.
If she could’ve had him back, after he was gone, she would’ve asked, “Why did you call me Poppet?”
But the ghost of him never appeared to answer, or apologize. That answer was lost, as are so many other important things in the galaxy. Especially out near the edge. But she never forgot the question.
“We did good today, Poppet.”
“Did we?”
“Yes. Very. They trust us. They’re hopeful that the Republic is going to expand operations here, in this sector, and they hope that means more credits for them and their families.”
“Is the Republic really going to do that?” Prisma asked.
He paused. The vast desert floor beneath them spread off into the darkness. A forgotten planet somewhere in the backwater of the galaxy turned once more on its axis in its long revolution about a star no one much cared about.
“Yes. I’m going to do my best to make the Council of Reason see why they need a military base here. Why they need to watch the edge.”
“Why do we need to watch the edge, Daddy?”
He didn’t answer. Instead they went inside and set the security protocols for the hours of sleep and dreams. The big war bots would lumber around the perimeter all night long. Watching and waiting.
She told Hulk One, which was what she called the leader, “G’night!”
It stopped to regard her, turning its low squat head, its gl
owing red eyes coming to rest on her. “Thank you, miss. Good night to you also.” And then it resumed its tireless patrol.
Later, her father turned on the fire in the sunken living area. He had a glass of Faldaren scotch. He stared into it, and occasionally the crystal fire.
Prisma could tell that he was thinking about something.
“Why do we need to watch the edge, Daddy?” she asked again.
He started, suddenly. As though he had not been there in that room, on that planet, with her. He smiled at her and put down the glass.
“There are things out there. Things that need watching.”
This sounded mysterious to Prisma.
She liked mysteries.
She read them all the time on her datapad. Mysteries about girls who crash-landed on dangerous planets and found pirates and ancient treasure from the Savage Wars. Artifacts, too, from inside Ancients’ ruins. She liked those the best.
“Like… what?” she prompted when he didn’t expand. He just seemed to be staring off at something again.
He hummed to himself as though he were thinking about whether to proceed. She knew what this meant.
“If it’s monsters…” she said, “I promise I won’t have nightmares.”
He nodded at that.
He took a sip of his scotch.
“Beyond the galaxy,” he began. “Way out in what the old freighter pilots and scouts call the…” He paused. Looked unsure about whether this was appropriate before-bed conversation.
“Oh, please,” she begged. “I’m almost a woman, Daddy. I need to know things.”
A smile tried to appear at the side of his mouth. But it just never made it. He just nodded once as though telling himself there was nothing truly to be afraid of. Just Kael Maydoon being ever cautious, and really… afraid of boogeymen who would never return from out there. So he continued.
“Oh… lost civilizations that are far older than the Republic, and…”
But he stopped again and almost laughed. Except it sounded like he was choking. He took another sip of the scotch to clear his throat.
“And what?” Then she guessed. “Monsters?”
Secretly, she loved mysteries about monsters. She didn’t tell anyone that. But monsters were sooooo epic.
“There are always monsters, Poppet. Even here inside the Republic. More than you can imagine. But sometimes there are things worse than monsters.”
“Worse than monsters?”
He nodded solemnly. “Worse.”
“How?” she asked.
“No, Prisma. It’s too late for that. I want you to sleep, and you don’t need your mind going all light speed at this time of night. Always try to think of something good before you go to bed. Not mysteries.”
“But I love them, Daddy.”
He smiled. “I know you do.”
“Then that’s a good thing to me. So tell me!” she pleaded one last time. He was actually quite helpless when she begged.
But he seemed to think on this.
“I will,” he promised. “Someday.”
But that “someday” would never come.
And Prisma went to bed that night trying to think of what mysteries could be more incredible than monsters. What, she thought, was out there beyond the edge of the galaxy? What needed watching?
But the question really should have been: “Who?”
She drifted off to sleep promising herself that she would go out there, beyond the edge, and find all those mysteries. Just like the girls she read about on her datapad. She would have adventures and see things. And that would be her life.
What a life it would be.
Yes, maybe she would even find monsters. Though lost civilizations were pretty interesting too. Lost civilizations and monsters together would be epically perfect. To see that was to see the greatest mystery one could ever hope to see, she thought—and as her mind surrendered to sweet sleep, and then dreams, she hoped that would happen to her.
But why, she wondered as sleep took her for the last time she would ever be a child. Before the shooting started the next day and she’d have to run for her life.
Why did the “Big Dark” need to be watched?
What was out there?
***
Everyone saw the big ship come in. It wasn’t a freighter. It was big like a small warship. Gray and bristling with weapon mounts. It came out of the bright clear sky and over the desert, moving slow like it was looking for something. The old bell that was the lone historical relic of Bacci Cantara, an actual old bell inside an old church someone had built long ago, started to ring. It was activated by an automated warning system that was operated by the star port’s AI.
Prisma was at the library. Her first day exploring on her own. Of course, she was always with Crash—the bot Daddy had purchased to keep an eye on her while he did Republic business, trailing along and constantly telling her to “Be careful, miss” and “I don’t think we should be gone this long, miss” as they explored what little there was to see of Bacci Cantara.
They’d met some interesting people. People Prisma had promised herself she would delve more into. Get to know. Hear their stories. She liked that. She liked meeting new people. Hearing their stories. Getting to know all about them.
But then everybody, the whole town, stopped suddenly as the solemn bell began to toll. The orbital proximity monitoring system had detected a ship. And a few minutes later, the large angular ship came through the clouds and settled on the ancient dry lake bed Bacci Cantara called their star port.
“Traders from Venice?” Prisma heard some old desert rat ask as she went to the edge of the high road to get a better view. When she saw the ship, a cold shiver ran through her, but she chalked that up to coming out into the sun from the cool interior of the library.
“Nah…” replied another man along the road, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sun. “Nothin’ ain’t due for two weeks. This is sumpin’ new, and that means extra credits, I’ll bet. Gotta get my minerals samples all in order.” And then that guy ran off. In fact, most everyone was running, scurrying really, everywhere. Not in fear, but in hope and expectation. As though some galaxy circus had just hauled into orbit high above.
“Miss,” interrupted KRS-88 over the general hubbub of excitement. “I do believe we need to seek out your father. This… unusual experience falls under a specific set of parameters he has personally instructed me in. I insist.”
Prisma saw the men disembarking from the ship. They came out from underneath, and even from this distance they appeared large. Armored in black, they looked like the pirates she’d seen pictures of in her girls’ adventure novels on her datapad.
She’d seen real pirates, too. Pirates the Republic had captured and brought in for a big public trial. Like that time when an entire liner had been murdered despite the ransom paid. These pirates looked like those pirates. Blasters. Armor. More blasters. Dirty, just like every pirate she’d seen in the news, or on the entertainments. Except this time it was real life, which is a thing one never expects to actually happen. And the truth was… they were scarier in real life. This was that sudden very real moment where one finds oneself beyond the safety parameters of the ride inside the galaxy circus. Or in the novel you’d been safely reading.
Prisma had experienced this same kind of moment once before, when she’d gotten away from her father on the big Republican carrier Freedom, which had brought them out to the edge. She had snuck onto the flight deck where the fighters were launched on patrol, and she got too close to a Lancer spooling up for departure. In that frightful loose-energy moment, she’d been made acutely aware of how small she was and how big the launching interceptor was. It thundered and roared just past her in an ear-splitting howl-scream as it leapt away from the carrier. Some deckhand had seen her and pulled her out of the way just in time. In that moment, she’d realized just how close to death real life could be.
This felt like that.
The da
rk men, venting from beneath the ship onto the desert floor, fanned out into a rough wedge and started walking across the dry lakebed toward Bacci Cantara.
“Let’s get back!” Prisma said suddenly.
And Prisma was running as fast as she could. Not totally knowing why. Only convinced that somehow losing her daddy was suddenly real and possible.
The shooting started just after that.
Prisma came up short as she rounded a deserted street. Far away she could hear the resounding whine of distant blaster fire echoing over the silent desert world. Just a few shots. Then a volley. Then more.
Then nothing but an ominous silence where there had once been something.
Crash scuttled up beside her.
“Miss, that’s blaster fire. I think Bacci Cantara is under some sort of attack.”
Prisma rolled her eyes at the obviousness of this statement.
“Prisma.” It was her father on her comm. “Prisma!”
She answered.
“Daddy! There’s shooting. A ship landed. It looks military, but not like the Republic. It’s different!”
“Prisma, I know. I need you to listen to me, and I need you to do everything I say.” The tone of her father’s voice scared her. It was hard, yet she could hear the fear.
There was more shooting nearby now. Some kind of battle was taking place just a few streets away. And Bacci Cantara didn’t have that many streets. People were running past her. A woman screamed that someone had been killed. No, that wasn’t right. She screamed that “they” were killing everyone.
“Prisma, I don’t want you to come back,” her father shouted over the comm. “I want you to hide in town somewhere. Wherever you are. Under no circumstances do I want you to come back here. And whatever happens, do not let these men get you, or find out you’re my daughter. No matter what. Do you understand?”
“Daddy, what’s—?”
“Do you understand me, Prisma? You must do what I say right now. I love you. No matter what: I love you.”
Right there she began to cry.
This was serious.