Beyond Those Distant Stars

by John B. Rosenman

  “I agree.” With a subdued air, Sloan glanced away, rubbing his large nose. Well, she told herself, after victory comes the realization of more tasks. As the man in charge of getting not one but two ships through a singularity, Sloan had good reason to act pensive, even peculiar. She recalled Sloan's pause when she first mentioned this assignment.

  “I'll see you later, Stella,” he said, patting her armored hand.

  “Wait a minute. I'll go with you, soon as I shake this suit.”

  “No, you won't,” George announced. He took Stella's arm and directed her to a bed where he made her sit before pointing to the jagged tear in her armor. “That Slug's stooge carved you proper. Let's see if you're ship worthy.”

  “It's mostly the armor's that's damaged,” she protested, watching Sloan go. “I have two other suits.”

  “Humor me,” George said. “Please?”

  Stella sighed and nodded. When her suit was removed, she felt embarrassed that she was clad only in underwear. Then she gasped, noticing the wound in her side. Thirty centimeters long, it was deep enough to insert a fingernail all the way in.

  “I didn't think it was that bad. I barely felt it.”

  “That's not surprising,” George said. “Your skin's synthetic.” He went to a cabinet and returned with a green tube.

  “What's that?”

  “Synderm healant. It'll help your skin close.” He smiled at her. “You won't even have a scar.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “How about that? I thought I'd have to protect you on this mission and you end up tending to me.” She studied him. “Why did you go, anyway? I thought you were against the war and didn't like fighting. Hell, I even suspected...” She watched George's eyes drop and pressed her advantage. “Something happened to you once, didn't it? Something that turned you against war.”

  George turned the tube in his hands. “Yes.”

  “Why did you go with me?”

  He stroked his beard. “I couldn't let you hop that tug alone.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I tried to tell you twice today, but we were always in a hurry. When I realized the Slug was a vid empath of sorts, I projected my libido onto its hide. In the confusion that followed, I was able to get close and have a clear shot.”

  “Oh, George.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I'm not worth it.”

  “You're beautiful,” he said, “and I'm not the only one who thinks that way.”

  “But I'm fake, a—”

  The hand with the tube covered her lips. “You're Stella,” George whispered. “If you were one hundred percent certified lab rat, you'd still be no less.”

  Such fervor dazed her, and she glanced about sickbay in confusion. After all that had happened, this was the most amazing thing of all. “You can't mean that.”

  “It's Jason, isn't it?” he said. “You don't think you're worthy of him. You think—”

  This time she silenced him. Just because Jason hadn't spoken to her yet didn't mean he wasn't listening or observing her. George's warm breath on her bare skin reminded her that she was sitting on this bed almost naked, exposed to him as well. She pulled away.

  “Listen to me, Stella,” he said, gripping her shoulders then removing his hands when she tensed. “I knew about Jason before we met the alien. Uh, everyone on the bridge did.”

  She stared at him in renewed shame. Was there nothing her crew didn't know about her?

  George went to a closet and returned with a lilac sleeping gown, which he held open for her. After a moment she rose and slipped into it.

  “How?” she demanded, tying the cord about her waist.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “A hundred little things you did gave you away. Like your gestures and the tone of your voice, the way you sat in your seat talking to Jason about your childhoods and hobbies. You didn't get that personal with any of the rest of us.” He straightened her collar. “Don't feel embarrassed. Believe me, there's not one person aboard who doesn't love and admire you, Stella. If there were any Doubting Thomases left, you've converted them, including me.”

  “You?”

  He smiled. “Before, I didn't think we had a chance in this stupid war. Hell, I thought war itself was pointless and futile, the product of pride, greed, cruelty, and a love of destruction. Now, because of the insane thing you made us try, I think we not only have a snowball's chance in hell to win this war, but we can actually make a difference.”

  Stella gazed at him, concerned with an earlier statement. “What about Jason? Do you think he loves and admires me too?”

  George sighed. “Maybe admire, but I don't know about love.” He softened his tone. “I know Jason. He likes women but uses them. There's stories in the corps that he ... well, let's just say he's got a history, a reputation for sweet words and hasty exits.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Just another hot-wired jump pilot, right? Love ‘em and leave ‘em. A dumb slit in every port.”

  “He'll only hurt you, Stella,” he said. “I've seen a hundred like him. The best thing that could happen to you is that he doesn't like you at all.”

  “Perhaps I need someone more dependable.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “But that wouldn't—”

  “You talk too much,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

  His lips covered hers, soft and warm, moving and molding her flesh. To Stella, they felt mildly pleasant, but little more. Still, it was good to be held, to have someone want to hold her, even if it wasn't Jason. Behind George, Thunderheart's armor creaked as he stiffened, but he didn't protest. After a while George's lips left hers and gently settled on her left eyelid, then her right before withdrawing.

  “One more thing,” he said, “and this I kept trying to tell you more than anything else. I've wanted to apologize for being such a dumb muck that day you assumed command. Baiting you, questioning your competence. I was a complete and total jerk.”

  She smiled at the unfamiliar reference and tapped his nose. “Isn't there an ancient saying to cover that, George?”

  His eyes widened. “Say, there should be. I'm supposed to be the expert in that area.” He pondered a moment, and then shrugged. “I give up. Do you know one?”

  “How about, ‘let's bury the howitzer'?”

  He stared, then threw his head back and roared. “You mean ‘Let's bury the hatchet,'” he choked out. “The United States of America, circa 1800.”

  “Whatever.”

  George's laughing gaze rested on hers and he raised his hand. “Friends?”

  She pressed his hand with her own, feeling her throat tighten with emotion. “Friends.”

  “Good, but don't squeeze too hard, huh? I'm not as strong as you.”

  “Agreed,” She smiled.

  George nodded, and then stepped back. “Enough small talk. I better treat that cut of yours.”

  “I think I'll do without it.”

  He blinked. “Why?”

  She sought an explanation, a reason why she'd do such a thing. Could it be that having a scar would link her with the frail, breakable bodies of her crew, that she'd still be in some way ‘human'?

  “Just because,” she said.

  He glanced at the tube in his hand, and then swung to Thunderheart as if seeking his support. Thunderheart's dark, bright gaze was fixed on her.

  “It won't hurt anything, will it?” Her head began to throb. “After all, it can't get infected.”

  George's thick brows bunched in a frown. “At least let me clean it and monitor it later,” he said. “As for now, I want you to rest here for a while. That was a mean spill you took when you hit the deck, and you ought to lie down. Doctor's orders, okay?” He went to the cabinet for another tube before she could protest.

  * * * *

  After George and Thunderheart left sickbay, she slipped under the covers while a nurse drew a white curtain around her bed for privacy. She closed her eyes, trying for calm, a respite from all the excitement.

  “Stella.”

  It was Jason. F
inally. She kept her eyes shut and tried to control her voice so he didn't hear the fear and anxiety George's words had caused. “Yes?”

  The voice moved closer, modulated and directed to her ears alone. “I want you to know I'd never do what George said. You mean too much to me.”

  She smiled. She wanted to believe Jason, believe that someone like him could care at least a little about someone like her, even though they'd never even touched. But she couldn't forget George's warning. “I bet you say that to all the fems, Jason. Dr. Wynn, for example. She seems quite taken with you.”

  A heartbeat passed. Then another. “She means nothing to me, Stella. Please, I think of you always here between the stars and feel you close inside me.”

  A cold chill. “Can you actually feel me?”

  “As close as you are to me now,” he whispered.

  She rocked her head from side to side on the pillow. “George is right. You're one smooth talker. Honey's bitter lemon compared to you.”

  “Please don't judge me,” Jason pleaded, his soft, rich voice caressing her cheek.

  “You're right. I should judge myself instead. It's wrong for a commander even to think about fraternizing with one of her officers.” She thought of how she'd been led astray by the mere sound of Jason's voice, feeling it implied a promise, a shared understanding.

  “I can't believe that what I feel is wrong,” Jason whispered. “I can only hope you feel the same way.” He sighed. “We have to do something in this terrible war to survive, something to make life worth living.” He paused. “Anyway, it didn't stop George, did it? Was he wrong to kiss you like that?”

  Stella kept her eyes shut, not knowing what to answer. All she knew was that she didn't want to spoil the illusion or question her sudden hope. As long as she didn't open her eyes and look, Jason lay right on the bed beside her, as true and loving as he claimed.

  “All right,” she whispered. “I'll wait till we actually meet before making up my mind. But you'd better be as good as your talk.”

  “I will be,” Jason murmured, and this time she thought she could actually feel his lips brush her skin. “I'll let you rest now, Commander. But before I go, congratulations. I'm proud to serve under your command.”

  * * * *

  It was almost time.

  She took another turn about her cabin, puttering about with this and that to make the seconds pass. Any moment Sloan would come as they agreed, and they would march to the bridge. There, perched in the very nose of this ship she had somehow come to command, she would sit in her chair and give the order to send the aliens’ ship and then their own down the devil's Stygian gorge-to what? Would it be to victory, to an eventual end of the war? Or, since it was impossible to send a message through the turbulence of a singularity, would Imperial sentinels on the other side blast the Slug ship to pieces out of fear before the Spaceranger could even arrive to dissuade them?

  Dear Lord, what, exactly, was going to happen?

  Ay, there's the rub, as George would say, quoting some ancient play. George: the memory of his lips on hers troubled her briefly, as did Thunderheart's worshipful gaze. Then both were swept away by the towering thought of Jason. If only she could speak to him! But Jason, she knew, was absorbed in the myriad details of this double launch and shouldn't be disturbed.

  She took another turn about her quarters, stopping before a holocube of her mother, a widow since her father's death fourteen years before. The white-haired image served only to remind her she had not paid her mother a visit in four years. But then, would her mother really want to see her as she was now?

  A knock.

  She turned. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Sloan entered and closed it behind him. He nodded. “Commander.”

  “Well. Sloan.” Nervously, she picked at her uniform. “This was a good idea you had to go together.” She smiled to cover the tension. “Might set a precedent, don't you think? From now on, every time our side catches an alien ship and prepares to plop down a black hole with it, the commander and first officer will march in parade toward the bridge.”

  “Yes, Stella. Perhaps that will happen.” Sloan scratched his bald head, evidently more nervous than she. But then, why shouldn't he be, considering the amazing and unprecedented operation he was handling?

  She forced her lips to smile. “Lighten up, Sloansy. You look like you're going to a funeral.”

  “Ah, no, ser.” He gestured behind her. “Won't you, uh, need your hat?”

  Her tricorn Commander's hat. So far she had avoided this showy and pretentious part of her uniform. But perhaps it was only proper that she wear it.

  “Thanks,” she said, turning. It was only when she had her hat in her hand that she felt something was wrong. Something about the way Sloan had sounded when he'd asked about the hat. Curious, she turned back.

  Before her, Sloan's face was a cold mask above the laser that pointed directly at her heart. “I'm afraid I can't let you wear it, ser,” he said. “You see, there's been a change of command.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  She stared at the dark, round nozzle for what seemed like minutes, and then raised her eyes to his.

  “You're really doing this, aren't you, Sloan?”

  “Yes, ser.” The barrel didn't waver.

  She thought of his recent behavior-hesitancy in responding over the comlink followed by excessive praise and a quiet reserve. The reserve she had attributed to his serious appreciation of new responsibilities. Obviously she had been wrong.

  She turned the Commander's hat in her hands. “Why, Sloan?”

  Sloan raised his free hand and rubbed his mouth. “Remember when I told you I didn't want your job? That I was happy with nav and com? I lied.”

  “You said a man had to know his limitations,” she said, “that you weren't right for command.”

  Sloan shook with anger. “More lies. I would have made a good commander, but I was never given a chance. I applied six times to the Academy but was denied!”

  Stella frowned, remembering Sloan criticizing the Empire for refusing to promote the poor. “But you said you didn't apply, and I checked your compfiles for promotion specs just as I did those of my other officers. There was nothing there about it.”

  Sloan smirked. “I didn't want anyone on board to know. Also, you forget I'm the nav and com chief. It was easy for me to remove that information.”

  She fought to keep calm. While Sloan had been advising her about her mistakes in conducting her first meeting, she had been making the biggest error of all by trusting him.

  “I don't seem to be able to stop making mistakes, do I, Sloan?” she asked, determined to keep him talking, to use his anger against him. “God, how you must have laughed when I called you in about my suspicions concerning George and Jason. What a joke. They turn out to be loyal while my first officer proves a traitor!”

  “I'm not a traitor!” The laser's barrel snapped up a few centimeters. “I'm not selling the Empire to the bloody Slugs. When we met in your cabin I wasn't even thinking of doing this. It was only when we took the Slug's ship that—”

  “You saw a chance to grab the glory for yourself?”

  “Listen. Damn you, I deserve it, have it coming.” He shook the laser. “Enough talk. I have a right to do this. I was born poor. Dirty, lice-ridden poor.”

  “So what? You told me how you struggled ... climbed the ladder ... finally earned your way into a nav and com guild.”

  “But not the Academy,” Sloan stressed. “The hypocrites only take rich ‘comrades’ for that.”

  “But I'm not rich.... “She stopped.

  “No, you aren't,” Sloan said triumphantly. “You got in through a fluke, because of that one-in-a-billion blowup on Warren. That was the only way you could become a commander, Stella. And you know it.”

  Yes, she did know it, as well as the hypocrisy and class consciousness concerning the commander's calling. Slo
an was right. Despite the lip service paid to equality and a common cause, admittance to the Academy would be difficult indeed for a poor boy without connections.

  She watched him, realizing he still hadn't fired.

  “I want you to understand,” Sloan said. “It's important to me. All my life I've dreamed about having my own ship. To be in charge, to give the orders! I've wanted and wanted it and suffered a dozen stupid, humiliating jobs while clawing my way up. But no matter how hard I climbed, no matter how well I did, they never gave this garbage-poor son of a Cleotian mine worker a chance!”

  “And now you see it,” she said. “Your one-in-ten-trillion opportunity to have all you've ever wanted. All you have to do is take it from me.” Stella shook her head. “And you say you're not a traitor?”

  “It's only a squaring of accounts. I'll make a damned good commander, and I'll serve the Emperor well!”

  She glanced at her comconsole, so near and yet so far. Her quarters were off-limits to Jason, who would have alerted someone to help.

  “It won't work, you know,” she said. “How will you explain my burned body?”

  “No problem,” Sloan said. “I came here as we'd agreed, found you distraught, overwhelmed by events. That, plus your accident on Warren, took their toll. You babbled, then snatched my weapon and burned yourself to pieces.”

  And they'll believe you, she thought, because of your reputation and all that's happened. Here and there, maybe some will doubt, but it won't matter.

  “I promise you'll receive all the honors,” Sloan continued, “all the recognition you deserve. I won't deny you anything. I swear to you I'll do my best to make you immortal within the Empire.”

  That's supposed to make me happy about dying? Her eyes burned into Sloan's.

  “Damn it, Sloan, I liked you.”

  He flinched, and then resettled, his hand tightening on his weapon. “Stella—”

  “I liked you, damn it. You were part of our team, helped me get started.” She shook her head. “You poor fool. There was glory enough for everyone, if that was what you wanted.”