Stars & Empire 2: 10 More Galactic Tales (Stars & Empire Box Set Collection)

by Jay Allan

“Yes?” Kurlin’s expression was grim.

  Atton held out his hand and the doctor reluctantly shook it. “Dr. Vastra, I’m Captain Adan Reese.”

  “I remember you.”

  Adan nodded and smiled. “The overlord sent me. We need to talk. Could I come in for a moment?”

  The doctor hesitated, leaning out the door to peer down the corridor, as if expecting to find a firing squad waiting just a step behind Atton.

  “Don’t worry. I came alone.”

  “Yes, of course . . . well, come in.”

  The doctor waved him through, and Atton stepped across the threshold. As soon as he was inside, Kurlin sealed and locked the door. The room was small, the same as all the crew quarters. There were two double bunks, a small table with two chairs below a viewport which showed a slice of the flashing gray clouds of the Stormcloud Nebula. There were two steel lockers, and a bathroom that one would have to step sideways to enter. The walls were polished, white-painted duranium with silver trim around the warm gold glow panels which lined the perimeter of the room, while the floor was lined with blue, dirt-repellent carpets.

  The smell of cinnamon wafted through the room, and Atton’s eyes were immediately drawn to the source. Alara and her mother were sitting on one of the bunks—Alara cupping a steaming mug of tea, not looking up, while her mother watched him from the shadows.

  Atton turned to the doctor just as the man came shuffling up to him. “What is it you would like to talk about, Captain Reese?”

  “We need you to test the crew to make sure no one is still contagious.”

  The old man’s blue eyes sharpened, going from tired to alert in an instant. “Is someone presenting symptoms?”

  “Not yet.”

  Kurlin’s shoulders sagged. “Good . . . that’s good.”

  “We still need to be sure we won’t be spreading the virus to our fleets in Sythian Space.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could run some tests just to be sure.”

  “We also need you to create more of the vaccine in the event of another outbreak.”

  The doctor hesitated. “How will I do that? I don’t have any of my data or equipment here. I don’t even have a sample of the vaccine or a live strain of the virus.”

  Atton frowned. “What about aboard Brondi’s corvette?”

  “Well, some things are there, yes, but not enough. I’ll have to start from scratch, working from memory.”

  Atton let out a tired sigh. “That’s not good.”

  “No . . .” The doctor began rubbing his chin. “But I should be able to do it.”

  “Good. You have three days.”

  “Three days? That’s not enough time!”

  “It’ll have to be. You’ll start testing the crew immediately. We’ve set up a lab for you in the med bay.”

  Now it was Kurlin’s turn to sigh. “I’ll do what I can. . . . Does anyone know about . . . about what happened aboard the Valiant?”

  Atton shook his head. “No, only the guards who interrogated you.”

  “I see, and they . . .”

  “They’ll be reassigned to the transfer station. We don’t want any problems.”

  Kurlin looked relieved. He nodded and turned to look at his wife and daughter. After a moment, he quietly said, “It’s not me I worry about, you know. I deserve whatever revenge they might take.” His gaze returned to meet Atton’s. “But my family is not responsible, and I’m afraid what will happen to them. Vigilante justice does not know the same bounds as legal justice.”

  “In the event that you are discovered, we’ll post a guard to protect you and your family.”

  “But who will protect us from the guards?”

  Atton frowned. Now he turned to look at Kurlin’s family, where they were sitting huddled on the bunk, listening keenly to his and Kurlin’s conversation. “How’s Alara doing?” Atton asked, as though she couldn’t hear.

  “She’s better, but still very confused. We are hopeful that she’ll be able to overcome her programming through cognitive behavioral therapy. The other treatments appear too risky at the moment.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Atton said, and he meant it. Alara looked up at him and smiled alluringly. He smiled back, but looked away.

  The doctor winced at his daughter’s expression and said, “Drink your tea, Alara.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said, but there was a wry twist to her lips that suggested she was only humoring him by calling him her father.

  Atton shook his head. “There’s a flight training program for nova pilots that’s just got underway.”

  “Oh?” the doctor asked, sounding distracted. “That’s nice.”

  “Yes. We’re in desperate need of pilots with training. I understand that Alara has had some flight experience.”

  Suddenly Kurlin understood. He waved his hand and scowled. “Absolutely not.”

  “The less-skilled pilots likely won’t see much action, but they could mean all the difference in a pitched battle.”

  “What is he talking about, Kurlin?” his wife asked.

  “Nothing, Darla. Don’t worry.” He grabbed Atton’s arm and began leading him from the room.

  “Unhand me, Doctor.”

  “Certainly.” Kurlin opened the door and pushed him outside; then he stepped outside with Atton and closed the door behind him with a wave of his wrist over the scanner. “She’s sick, Captain!” Kurlin said through clenched teeth. “You can’t put her in a cockpit—in a nova cockpit of all things!”

  “She’s a trained pilot, and reinforcing a skill which connects to memories from her old life will help bring her back faster than any cognitive therapy.”

  Kurlin frowned. “What good is bringing her back if she dies in the process?”

  Atton threw up his hands. “What good is any of this if we all die because our capable pilots refuse to fly? We need her, Kurlin. I’ll have her fly my wing if she makes the squadron. I’ll look after her the best I can. I’m a 4A pilot. You can count on me to keep her safe.”

  Kurlin’s lips trembled and his blue eyes glittered with some powerful emotion he was suppressing. For a moment Atton felt sure the old man was about to punch him in the face, but then he simply turned away and re-entered his quarters. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “If I have to order her to join the trainees, I will, Doctor,” Atton called after him.

  Kurlin turned to stare at him, his expression unreadable. “Do whatever you feel you must, Captain, but she is not your daughter, and you would do well to imagine what you would do if she were.”

  Atton watched the door slide shut and then he turned away with a frown. He began striding back the way he’d come, his heels clicking across the deck. He could have just dismissed it as Commander Adari’s fight and leave him to deal with all the reluctant recruits, but unfortunately it wasn’t that simple. This was everyone’s fight, and no one could afford to sit on the sidelines. The Defiant was running short-staffed as it was.

  Atton entered the lift which had brought him to the crew deck and he punched in deck 17—Aurora’s Borealis. It was the ship’s main bar and rec hall. It took up most of the upper deck just below the bridge, the ship’s 18th and highest level.

  The gold lights of the lower decks flashed by the transparent slits in the sides and front of the lift as it rose, blurring into teardrop-shaped streaks as Atton contemplated crossing Sythian Space. They would be setting out in just two days. No, it was two days this morning, Atton thought.

  Now it was just one.

  The lift slowed to a stop and the doors opened straight into Aurora’s. The spectral greens and blues of a simulated aurora borealis hovered just above his head—shifting veils of light which drew Atton’s eyes toward the ceiling. Above that lay a glittering patina of stars which were twinkling against the black, dome-shaped roof. The holo projection was inspiring to look at. With that sight, the verses of a famous poem—one of Atton’s favorites—came unbidden to his thou
ghts: A spacer’s dream / the stars to fly / to shed light where darkness lie / and discover what wonders wait—

  “Before encountering this spacer’s fate,” Atton whispered the last verse to himself as he sat down at the bar.

  “Catral. Those five lines immortalized him,” the bartender said, nodding. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Skidmark.” She smiled prettily at him, looking him up and down, as if suddenly seeing him in a new light.

  Atton smiled back. The bartender’s name was Aurora; she was the owner and a retired Deck Sergeant.

  “What’ll you be having?” she asked.

  Atton grinned. “Whatever will knock me off this chair and plant my head firmly on a pillow.”

  “Well for that I’d recommend a plasma grenade.”

  Atton frowned. “I’d prefer if my head were still attached to my neck when it lands on my pillow.”

  “Hah!” Aurora laughed with sparkling gray eyes and flicked her long brown hair over her left shoulder. “You’re a funny one. I like that. We need to laugh in times like these. No, it’s a cocktail. I’ll get you one,” she said, already busying herself behind the bar. “It’s my own creation.”

  “Sure,” Atton nodded. While he waited to be served, he heard the doors open behind him and turned to see Commander Adari walk in. “Hoi!” Atton waved and the commander walked up to him, offering a sloppy salute.

  “Sir,” he said.

  Atton thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in Ithicus’s voice, but he decided to ignore it. “Pull up a chair.”

  Ithicus hopped up on one of the barstools and sat down.

  “How’s recruitment going?”

  Ithicus snorted and turned to him after waving down Aurora and asking for a black maverick. “How do you think? It’s a joke. We can’t train pilots in two days. They’ll be lucky not to crash into the Defiant and accidentally kill us all on a routine fly by.”

  Atton smiled as his drink arrived in a tall, fluted glass. Aurora winked at him as she slid it across the counter. The plasma grenade was swirled red and yellow, like a fiery explosion. Atton picked up the concoction and used the straw to stir it before taking an experimental sip.

  He almost choked. It burned his throat, opening his airways as it went down, leaving him with watering eyes and a strong urge to sneeze. It tasted like pure alcohol mixed with fire and cleaning solvent. Not that he knew what that tasted like. Atton turned to Ithicus. “I’d like to sign up for the squadron.”

  Ithicus raised an eyebrow. “You were already a pilot, Adan. Now you’re the XO. Are you just trying to confuse everyone, or did the overlord fire you already?”

  Atton shook his head. “We’re all going to need to fill several roles to keep this ship flying in one piece. I’m a skilled pilot, so I can’t afford to stand around looking pretty on the bridge when there’s a fight.”

  Ithicus snorted and gulped his maverick straight out of the bottle. “Well, you never were that pretty.”

  Atton grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to take your command. I have no ambitions to lead the squadron.”

  Ithicus nodded and set his beer down with a thunk. “I wouldn’t mind if you did have them. It’s just a lot of extra data entry if you ask me. More trouble than it’s worth, but welcome back, brua. I’ll assign you a bird tomorrow morning and you can help me put the new recruits through their paces.”

  “I look forward to it,” Atton replied and raised his fluted glass for a toast.

  Ithicus made no move to raise his beer, but his crooked nose twitched. “What the frek is that?” he asked, nodding to the deceptively delicate-looking drink.

  “It’s a plasma grenade,” Aurora answered for him, and both Atton and Ithicus turned to her. “Want one?” Her gray eyes were laughing and held a hint of challenge.

  Ithicus barked a laugh. “Sure, why not? If skinny here can take it, I don’t see what’s my excuse.”

  Aurora smiled and winked at Ithicus. “Coming right up.”

  Chapter 9

  Brondi stood looming over his nav officer’s shoulder, staring with a gaping smile at the star map hovering above the console—at one bright point in particular. It was highlighted with a green diamond and there were colored dots around the icon to indicate attached data about the system.

  “Are you sure this isn’t some sort of ruse old Dominic left to draw us out?” Brondi asked.

  “I’m positive, sir. The records show no sign of tampering, and there’s simply too much data for this star system. Dominic wouldn’t have had enough time to fabricate it all. There are even holo recordings of meetings with the leader of the enclave—Admiral Hoff Heston.”

  “Well, well, well!” Brondi clucked his tongue. “This is very nice!” A plan began to form in Brondi’s head. Between the holoskins of the overlord which he’d discovered, and this new bit of information, he was beginning to plot his next move. “What’s in that system?”

  The nav officer responded by zooming in on the highlighted point, and Brondi saw that inside the highlighted area was the GCR—Gorvin, Clementa, and Rhodal—three systems which encompassed the three prime worlds for which they were named. In the very center of the three systems was an exoplanet called Ritan, which had been the subject of intense ecological and scientific study in the past. Ritan was a dark world, heated to a cozy equatorial temperature of twenty below by its active volcanoes. In between the steaming calderas and volcanic vents lay vast fields of ice which were populated by roaming herds of ice walkers. The walkers fed upon the luminescent moss which grew up in the geothermal marshes, while the perpetually dark skies were patrolled by a deadly species of giant bats that hunted the ice walkers. It was a short food chain—home to more strains of bacteria and fungi than anything else—and it was far from paradise. In spite of this, the Valiant’s star maps gave the planet great importance. Its planetary icon was brighter and bolder than all the rest, and the note that was attached under its name raised more than a few questions: Gor Academy & 5th Fleet Rendezvous.

  Brondi frowned. “Gor academy?” he wondered aloud. “What’s that?”

  The nav officer shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir. With your permission, I can submit a query to the ship’s computer. Maybe there’s something in the databanks.”

  Brondi eyed the man. “If you needed to take a piss, would you ask for permission to do that, too?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Brondi stood watching as the corpsman at the nav submitted a verbal query to the Valiant’s databanks, soliciting a verbal response from the ship’s computer: “Gor Academy, population forty seven thousand Gors and four hundred humans.” Brondi’s eyes widened. “Center for training emancipated Gors in the operation and maintenance of human starships. Founded in 8 AE.”

  “What the frek?” Brondi exchanged startled looks with the nav officer. Every eye on the bridge had turned to them and all the furious clicking and tapping at the bridge control stations had ceased, leaving only the steady hum of the ship’s air cyclers to break the silence.

  “Who are the Gors?” Brondi demanded of no one in particular.

  The computer answered with a second holo which appeared above the control station, hovering to one side of the star map. It showed a tall, muscular creature with pale blue-gray skin, a bony face and slitted yellow eyes. Then the ship’s computer went into a lengthy description of the Gors, their status as Sythian slaves, and their more recent role as part of the ISSF. By the time the computer finally shut up, a heavy silence fell once more.

  Brondi just stood there, his chest rising and falling quickly as he stared into the skull-like blue-gray face of the Gor hovering above the nav station. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “I’ll be in my quarters,” he said, and with that, Brondi turned and strode for the gangway which led off the bridge.

  He needed time to think things through.

  * * *

  Alara sat in the shadows of Aurora’s, listening to the two men at the bar singing drinking songs and
laughing loudly into the wee hours of the night. They hadn’t even noticed when she’d come in. She sat by herself in a deep armchair which faced the bar’s main viewport, bouncing her knees in a steady rhythm as she stared glassy-eyed across the Defiant’s long bow and forward beam cannons into the flashing gray nebula beyond. She’d snuck out of her parents’ quarters as soon as they’d fallen asleep, and she’d come straight here. A part of her wondered why here—why come to a bar if she didn’t intend to drink?—but the other part of her knew exactly why, and that knowledge sent her mind spinning away in tormented chaos.

  She wanted so badly to join the men at the bar. Habit, impulse, desire, purpose, and needy insecurity were all mixing together to drag her toward them. She recognized both men, and both were handsome. More importantly, they were both likely to be very hungry. Officers always were, due to the higher percentage of enlisted men than women in the ISSF.

  The only thing which stopped Alara from heading their way was the fact that everyone around her kept telling her that her every instinct was wrong, and that she wasn’t who she thought she was. Her memories were warring with each other. She remembered countless hundreds of men, all the faces blurring together. And as hard as she tried, she couldn’t feel revolted by those memories. Her job, while not glamorous, was highly paid, and it made her feel fortunate in a time when people were starving to death for lack of employment. But besides that, she actually enjoyed what she did. It was all she knew, and she was good at it.

  How could that be fake?

  The medic had had to show her the brain scan. She recalled seeing the offending implant attached to her temporal lobe, and she remembered the sweaty feeling of unreality which had swept through her upon seeing it. That revelation had almost sent her drifting back into the cozy warmth of the abyss, but she’d fought to stay conscious. If what everyone was saying was true, then she couldn’t allow herself to be weak. That would mean losing her very self, her identity—everything that she was. . . .

  Except that who she was now wasn’t who she’d been. They were like two separate people—identical twins—and wishing the old person back was like wishing herself dead so that her twin could live.