Beyond Those Distant Stars

by John B. Rosenman

  “You looked at that thing! Almost got me too but I caught on. Come on now, up!”

  She felt herself pulled into a sitting position. The soldier, whose blue armor indicated he belonged to the dek-path, slipped her weapon into her holster and patted her armored shoulder. “Are you all right? Stay here, ser, while I try to rouse him. And please don't turn around. You don't want to look at it again.”

  She nodded, staring dully down at blue metal and infinite depths that...

  Don't think of it or it'll happen again. But her entire being yearned for half-remembered ecstasies which faded even as she tried to recapture them. Such a divine dream. How could it hurt to take just one look?

  NO.

  She forced herself to rise, the part of her that was flesh prickling with pins and needles. How long had she been under? Keeping her back to the deadly lure, she checked her helmet cronex. Oh God, she'd lost twenty minutes!

  A light lit on her vid. She pressed a button with her chin, accessing channel B.

  “Commander?”

  She opened her lips, wet them. “McMasters here.”

  “Thank God you are!” Brett's sharp voice responded. “I've called you twice but you didn't answer.”

  “There was ... some trouble,” Stella said, dimly hearing the soldier work on Nick behind her. “I'm all right now. We both are.”

  “Good. Ser, we're in some kind of utility room, maybe twenty meters aft of the bow. There's been Scaley activity.”

  “Activity?”

  “Yes. Dozens of them, marchin’ up to the bow. Something's up there, ser. I feel it. Have they marched your way too?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  A brief pause. “Not sure? What do—”

  “Never mind. Just don't look at any bright light displays, all right? They've got some kind of device that does odd things, mucks up your mind.”

  “Device? What do you mean?”

  “There's no time to explain. Just do as I say: don't look at it.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Good. Report back in ten minutes. Out.”

  Pressing the button with her chin again, she heard Nick's dazed voice on the other channel as the soldier helped him up. Taking Stella's arm, he steered them both toward the bow.

  And not a moment too soon, for the floor was vibrating. Footsteps coming their way! She searched for a place to hide, but there was nothing, only clear, featureless walls and a floor that resonated with the enemy's approach.

  She and the man who had rescued them saw it at the same time: an oval portal the same color as the wall, so easy to miss. Where did it lead? What if it were locked? Knowing they had no choice, she darted to it. Spotting a recessed handle, she turned it left, then right.

  It was locked.

  The enemy's footsteps echoed like thunder now. She glanced behind, seeing the black soldier's taut, alert face as he supported Nick under one arm. She turned back, braced herself.

  The handle resisted, and then turned with a sharp crack. Slipping inside, she held the door open as they entered, then closed it.

  They waited in a large dim chamber as the footsteps rose to a crescendo.

  Through a wide slit in the door, they could see the corridor. At first it was empty. Then the Scaleys marched past in three neat rows, their heads held to the front as they moved with a precision no humans could match. Finally they were gone, their sound fading.

  “I'll be a Scaley whore's mama,” the black soldier whispered.

  Stella looked up at him. “Which one are you?”

  “Thunderheart, ser.”

  “I see. The others?”

  He dropped his eyes. “Dead.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “How do you know? Did you...” She let the sentence die.

  “I just know,” Thunderheart told her. “I feel it. Emperor's Arm. Silverwing, Launchblast, Spaceleaper and all the others. They're gone. The Scaleys spilled their souls’ blood.”

  “My sympathy, Thunderheart,” she said softly. As the Empire's most elite society of soldiers, The Emperor's Arm made service to the Sovereign a fierce, semi-mystical calling that incorporated equal parts ascetic self-denial and grueling, constant practice of arcane martial arts. Any of them would feel blessed to lay down their lives for the boy emperor and that to lose even one in combat was tragic. But to lose nine...

  Stella sighed. What must it be like to lose nine of your brothers and sisters, siblings conditioned since infancy to be as close as your own heartbeat? To be alone for the first time with no empathetic web to connect you to your family and define your selfhood? She glanced away, feeling a wave of shame. This soldier had lost so much, and yet, unlike her, he hadn't been conquered by a gaudy booby trap. Instead, he had saved those who were.

  “How are you, Nick?” she ventured, avoiding Thunderheart's eyes.

  “Much better, ser.” His cheek twitched. “I mucked up.”

  “So did I. Let's forget it,” she said.

  “Commander,” Thunderheart said. “The walls.”

  They were lightening. Or rather, darkening and lightening at the same time. Black interstellar reaches appeared, glittering with stars. And something was rising from the middle of the floor! Her plasma jet leapt into her hand as Thunderheart and Nick less quickly followed suit.

  The column rose and unfolded, expanding throughout the chamber. Spheres of different sizes, different hues assumed orbits about a large central globe.

  An orrery.

  “What is it?” Nick said.

  “Humanity's solar system,” Thunderheart said, confirming Stella's suspicion. He pointed. “I think that one's Terra.”

  Nick squinted. “What's it for?”

  The orrery changed. They watched as the sun, planets, and moons collapsed and dwindled toward the center. The gulf between the stars appeared, then Alpha Centauri and other bodies. More reaches swept by, leading in time to a blazing pinpoint situated before the black speck of a singularity.

  “My God,” Nick whispered, “that's us!”

  “I think they're doing it for our benefit,” Stella said.

  “Benefit, hell,” Thunderheart snarled. “They're playing with us. They know we're in here.”

  George said as much, Stella thought, wondering where he was. Seeing a light flash on her vid, she nudged the channel button with her chin.

  “Commander,” Brett's voice said, “we're still bunkered down. The last Scaleys just passed. Traffic's been heavy.”

  “Read you clear,” Stella answered. “What do you plan?”

  “Thought as long as it's clear we'd recon up to the bow,” Brett said. “They haven't noticed us yet and—”

  The channel went dead.

  Great, Stella thought. An instant later another voice came on, one tinged with panic.

  “Stella, what happened to them? Lee's still a bit dazed.”

  “Don't know, Sloan,” she said. “Just try to relax.” She accessed channel A again. “Looks like they got them,” she told her crew. “Their comm went dead.”

  Thunderheart began to swear softly, uttering imprecations in which Stella heard more obscenely imaginative observations about Scaleys and their body parts than she had ever thought possible. After an especially pungent phrase, she raised her hand.

  “Enough. Okay, they know we're here, and they're biding their time. Let's try to do the same, shall we?”

  Discipline settled in Thunderheart's eyes as the trained warrior returned. “Yes, my Commander.”

  Nick gestured past him. “Look.”

  The walls were changing again. They saw stars approach and vanish, approach and vanish as some unseen camera sped forward, traveling ever faster until light-years swept by in seconds. Red dwarves and white giants, quasars and nebulae passed, thousands of light-years now, all of it rushing so fast the eye could no longer follow.

  Finally, at some great distance from them, the camera started to slow. Soon, they could see discrete solar systems, planets with continents and polar caps. Sl
ower and slower they went, until...

  A planet approached, and even from outer space they could tell it was raped and ravaged, cold and utterly lifeless. As they grew closer, they could see winds tear across its pitted sienna surface.

  “Maybe that's where they live, or used to,” Nick whispered in awe.

  “Hope it's not an invitation,” Stella said. “If it is, I'll pass.”

  There was a knock behind them.

  They whirled, plasma jets trained on the door whose lock she had broken.

  Slowly it opened, opened wider and wider as the chamber lightened. Stella waited, listening to the quiet, immutable beating of her heart.

  A Scaley stood in the doorway, unsuited and unarmed. It held out its hand to them and started to sing.

  Beautiful sounds enveloped them, notes melodious and pure and joyful. Notes that could stir the heart, make even a monster cry.

  And Thunderheart burned it to rubble, and then forged past its crumbled remains into the corridor. They followed him, only to see other aliens waiting, all of them suited and armed. Thunderheart spun to meet them.

  Stella caught his weapon. “No. Holster it.” She looked at Nick. “You too.”

  Nick obeyed, but Thunderheart froze. “Holster my weapon, ser?”

  Stella holstered her own. “Sometimes resistance is pointless, soldier.”

  He looked at his plasma jet, and then at the Scaleys, who stood motionless. How hard it must be to obey her when all his training had been devoted to killing the enemy, the same despised enemy that had just slain his brothers and sisters. To meekly lay down his weapon when he could take a Scaley or two with him must seem incredible, the height of folly and even treason. But resistance would only lead to their deaths and accomplish nothing.

  Or was she wrong? At least Thunderheart's way would mean they died with honor and covered with enemy blood. What point could there be in surrendering?

  Changing her mind, she opened her mouth to give a new order, but Thunderheart holstered his plasma jet. “Yes, Commander,” he said.

  Moving in, the Scaleys took their weapons and nudged them toward the bow. As they walked, Thunderheart's glances stung her conscience. She could almost hear his thoughts. We surrendered like cowards when we could still fight. I saved you for THIS. No, that was guilt speaking, for she knew Thunderheart was sworn never to question his superiors. What his looks signified was a question: What do you know that I don't that made you surrender?

  She didn't know what to say and had only a vague feeling this was the wiser course. A commander shouldn't give an order on such a flimsy basis, should she?

  Sloan's voice came through her earplugs. “Commander.”

  She sighed. “Pray for us, Sloan. It's too late to change my mind.”

  She could almost see his homely face scrunch with emotion. “God bless you, ser.”

  Stella recalled Sloan's statement that their ‘caste-ridden empire’ prevented poor and enlisted personnel from becoming commanders, never giving them a chance despite their qualifications. “For the record,” she answered, “you were wise not to apply for this job. It's no tea-party, Sloan.”

  “Yes, ser. We're tracking you well,” he said, obviously trying to find something positive. “We have a complete record of everything you've seen and heard on their ship. It should keep our experts busy for months.”

  A sound rose from somewhere. Her imagination? Audio feedback? It was coming from ahead of her, from rows of Scaleys standing against the wall on both sides of the corridor before what must be the bow. They were-there was no other word for it-singing.

  Nick glanced at her in astonishment. Even Thunderheart's grim features looked puzzled.

  “Stella,” Sloan murmured, “what the bloody hell are they doing?”

  She remembered Brett saying that she felt something was up there in the bow and keyed the volume louder so he could hear over the Scaleys’ voices. “You know something, Sloan? We've given you a nice guided tour so far, but I've got a feeling you ain't seen nothing yet. It's what's up ahead in the bow you should watch for.”

  Sloan didn't reply, not even when they reached the first aliens and it became clear to her what their song was. Though she didn't understand the words, there was no doubt that the Scaleys sang of adoration and of worship, of prayer and transcendence. Their faces looked transfigured, as if it were a church or cathedral they paid homage in, and as if they were glorified and exalted by doing so.

  A shiver branched through Stella's body. I wonder what's waiting at the altar, she thought, and found herself remembering Jason for the first time since she'd entered the alien ship. Despite her fear, she hoped he was watching.

  Clutching her empty holster, she passed through an arched portal with her crew and finally entered the bow of the ship.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  One step inside and Stella felt a strange sensation, one she tried desperately to define. Hesitantly, she took a second step. Another.

  Alien.

  The air breathed it, the walls screamed it. She blinked, marching slowly toward dazzling mist that hovered ten meters ahead.

  ALIEN.

  Not the alienness of the sand tarqt on V'on, a ferocious two-headed lizard that attacked from below with an ear-splitting hiss its victims heard too late. Stella had seen one in a game preserve, and though it was frightening, what she sensed now was of a different magnitude entirely. Her pulse rate seemed to double as she approached, though she knew her heart beat as placidly as ever.

  A meter from the mist, she looked back at Nick and Thunderheart.

  “Are you ready, comrades?”

  Thunderheart nodded. “Lead on, Commander.”

  She turned back, wishing she had someone to follow. As she proceeded, wisps of shining, shimmering mist clung to her suit before drifting past. With every step, the sense of alienness, of wrongness intensified.

  Abruptly white nothingness surrounded her, and she groped her way through a soundless void reminiscent of the godless gulfs between the stars. Except this mist emitted branching scintillations of light. They reminded her of the electrical impulses within a brain.

  The concept made her gasp. Could she be in a giant brain? Was this what propelled the enemy's ships: enormous mentalities as insubstantial as mist?

  “Stella,” Sloan's voice rasped in her earplugs. “I can't see anything.”

  “Wait,” she said. “I have a feeling the main attraction's just ahead.”

  Before her, rifts appeared in the mist. She saw Brett and Morner standing without their helmets. Instead of perishing without air, they were rapturously moving their lips.

  Singing.

  Their voices broke suddenly upon her, the dampening effect of the mist nullified by their proximity. Stella froze, her crew stopping behind her as they listened.

  It was the same singing as the Scaleys, vibrant with praise and transcendent joy. Whatever the aliens had worshipped, so now did Brett and Morner. Both had been twisted, transformed into converts.

  And the object of their adoration waited just meters away, on the other side of the mist.

  She gritted her teeth and marched forward, anxious to confront whatever it was even if it meant her death. What could the thing be?

  For a moment, after she reached Brett and Morner, she had eyes only for the rapt expressions on their faces. Even when they abruptly stopped singing, their faces remained ecstatic, transfigured by sublime joy. Stella sensed that their sworn duties were ashes to them, that they did not even exist. Whatever her two crew had become, it was something wholly new.

  She wrenched her gaze away, faced the being before which they stood.

  Her first impression was of an enormous, glistening white slug three meters high. Repugnant, yes, but not awesome. Surely it wasn't something to mesmerize and steal her comrades’ allegiance. Then she noticed the thing was writhing and shifting, fluctuating like the hypnotic light display that had ensna
red her mind. There were intricate contours on the massive form, whorls and designs created by its bulges and indentations. The configurations on this being were analogous to the forms she had seen in the light display and would have the same effect if she weren't careful.

  “Don't look at it!” she shouted to her crewmen. “Take only glances or it'll put you under just like them.” She pointed at Brett and Morner.

  A slash opened midway up the lustrous, white, protean body. “You have learned,” a voice issued from it. It was like Jason's voice, everywhere at once and all-pervasive. Yet at the same time it was unspeakably alien.

  Stella stepped forward, Sloan's faint breathing in her ears. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “First, to see you. Remove your helmets and surrender them to your captors. As with your friends, you will find this area breathable.”

  She started to refuse but several Scaleys stepped forward. Looking at her crew, she nodded.

  After they obeyed and found they could breathe, dark, malignant laughter swept over them. As if teasing, a giant, incongruously beautiful eye opened where before there had been only a sluglike skin. Stella gazed at it, and then shifted her eyes. Like a sun, this thing had to be looked at obliquely, and only in snatches.

  “Excellent,” the voice said as its body flowed and changed in restless currents. “You have profited from experience and alerted your companions. Unfortunately, you cannot assist my two acolytes.” Its laugh unfolded like an evil flower. “Nor, I am afraid, can you aid your other companion.”

  A large holoscreen materialized in the air between them, showing one of the ship's corridors. In the foreground what looked like a Scaley warrior stood rigid before the pattern chamber that had ensnared Stella.

  “My amusement, or what I call my ‘imager,’ has only a benign effect on me,” it said, “but I am afraid it has entrapped your friend. It is a pity, for I enjoyed his contest with my pawn all the more because he prevailed.” Something like a sigh passed through the bow, and Stella saw an enormous red tongue move within the alien's mouth. “I was hoping he would prove to be a more resourceful adversary, that in my little game, he would pose at least a theoretic challenge.”