Beyond Those Distant Stars

by John B. Rosenman

  Malek glared at her through his faceplate, his features chalk white and filled with maniacal rage. “I swear you will pay for this, McMasters,” he said. “For what they did to me, for the unmentionable indignities, you shall pay!”

  Stella murmured in surprise. Evidently Malek had arranged to be on her frequency with a compatible unit so he could address her.

  “Congratulations, Regent-Protector. The greatest battle of the war approaches, and you will have the honor to die for your Emperor.”

  Malek's eyes bulged. “I will order Loran to transport me elsewhere.”

  “Will you?” she smiled. “I doubt he can spare even one ship. Besides, before I left, he claimed that your continued presence would be an inspiration to our soldiers, a sign of your confidence in them.” She winked. “You can hardly run out on your comrades like a traitor now, can you?”

  Malek stared back, but it was clear he was seeing only the dimensions of a new and unforeseen problem.

  “I hope you found your host warm and cordial while I was away,” Stella said. “If you think about it, you were treated better than you and your associates treated the Emperor. By the way, General Loran seemed a bit concerned when he learned about the boy's addiction to drugs. Perhaps you can explain it to him.”

  “You're vile,” Malek said. He swept Stella's crew with disdainful eyes. “If I had my way, you and all these traitors would die slowly, piece by piece.”

  “Ah, but you don't have your way, Regent-Protector.” Grinning, Stella glanced at her crew and moved on with the guards’ assistance.

  Then they were all aboard La Libertad and rushed to prepared seats in the docking area. Even as they strapped in, the ship accelerated, leaving the vigilant, which she glimpsed through a porthole, heading back to the fleet. No tricks or deception. Her plan had worked.

  Shortly afterward, when they were clearly out of danger, Pancho rushed in with some of his crew and unbuckled them so they could stand. After Pancho's men helped her remove her armor, he proved ecstatic. “Stella, ah Senorita, you are here!” He embraced her lustily, standing on his toes to kiss her cheek. She smiled and returned his pressure, careful not to let him near her lips.

  When Pancho realized she was a cyborg, he caught his breath. For a long moment Stella hoped that it might reduce his ardor, but it only enhanced it. Now his eyes gleamed like she was a special prize he wanted to claim.

  She deftly eluded another kiss and slipped past him, wondering why she seemed to attract men she didn't want. Looking up, she saw George enter the docking bay. Just behind him came Jason.

  She hurried to George and threw her arms about his neck. He grunted in surprise as she kissed him, then briefly returned it before trying to pull back. She held him in place easily for several more seconds before releasing him.

  “Stella,” Jason said. He moved forward.

  “Hello, Jason.” She nodded and glanced away. Spotting Brett, she laughed and called her name. Moments later, her whole crew poured in and victory shouts sounded. She was kissed and hugged a dozen times as Jason looked on. Powers, she noticed, was greeted almost as enthusiastically.

  “Stella,” Brett said during a lull in the celebration. “Pierce told me that if it hadn't been for Starkey, you would have gotten Loran to agree. Now he's going with his old plan.” She went to Jason and pulled him forward. “The big question is, does Loran have any chance at all?”

  Stella struggled to appear calm. Did Brett, and perhaps the others, want her to take Jason back? For all she knew, her whole damned crew knew what had happened.

  For the first time, she met Jason's eyes. Pain and hate and love milled inside her. She wanted to kill him; she wanted to run to him, she wanted to hide. In the end she did nothing, even though part of her wanted to.

  “Does Loran have any chance at all?” she said. “Brett, it would take a miracle.”

  * * * *

  She spent the next ten days getting used to La Libertad's routine, which consisted of avoiding detection and capture by hiding in a gas giant's atmosphere. Whenever possible they tried to intercept Loran's encrypted messages. What was Loran doing? If only she could prevent the colossal catastrophe she felt was imminent. Despite her dread, she tried to open her mind to the All-Mother, wishing her enemy would contact her again, call her to battle so Loran's vast forces could be spared. Damn it, anything was better than this waiting, especially with Pancho underfoot half the time.

  At first she was intensely aware it was Pancho's ship and that he was in command, but he acceded to all her wishes, speaking constantly of his role in her new administracion. If he was the captain, she was the general, and he didn't protest when she asked for a work detail to scrub the grimy decks and cabins. Now and then he'd make an effort to seduce her which she always declined. Sometimes he accepted it cheerfully, other times with a glum expression that almost moved her. After three or four of these attempts, she realized he did it because he felt it was something a hot-blooded pirata who was all hombre would do.

  One of the first things she did was go to George and apologize for what had happened between them. He accepted her apology but told her it was more important that she make peace with Jason. She cut that conversation short and returned to her cabin.

  To her surprise, the dead Slug's mind touched hers there and she was stirred anew by his memories. She yearned to plunge her mind into a vortex again and be one with the Pregnant Song's artillery and drive system. She caught glimpses of his home world, a place of swamps and green skies. But the link was weak, and she doubted it would return.

  * * * *

  On the eleventh day, when she stood on the bridge, the All-Mother visited her again.

  She came this time not as a conqueror but as a lover. Dimly, Stella heard George call her name, but she was beyond his reach. Pancho, Powers, and the others faded into the distance.

  The All-Mother laid her words like an offering on the altar of Stella's mind. See, Stella Singlethorne McMasters ... do you see what I bring you? All this, all that you behold, is for you.

  As if by a divine decree, it was all there before her. She saw Loran's forces and the All-Mother's converging in space, five thousand ships per side. The greatest battle in history was about to occur, nearly equal sides meeting for an ultimate confrontation. It was Armageddon and the death of dreams. Watching, she wondered how Peter, her game-loving pilot, would have felt. Because of the surgery required to reintegrate him with his body, he'd had to remain with the Spaceranger and General Loran.

  See Stella, see what I give you.

  She throbbed with love and gratitude for the All-Mother, who for once was blessing her with a wondrous gift. Stella cast the feelings of appreciation out, only to feel them creep back. Before her, the advance forces of the two armies were about to meet.

  Beams of light speared her vision as the ships began to fire. She watched Loran's forces closely to detect what he'd called their new strategy and saw a complex pattern unfold in overlapping swarms of attackers. She called out, urging them on to victory as the ships made contact. Rods of flame shot out, and she saw metal blasted to pieces and thrown off into space.

  “Comandante,” a voice shouted faintly, “I'm picking something up. It sounds like fighting, some kind of battle.”

  “Battle?” Pancho's voice said. “Can you get it on vid?”

  “I'm trying, Comandante. I think ... yes! They quit blocking us!”

  Blind to what happened on the bridge, Stella watched the two vast armies collide, her view incomparably better than that of the crew, which saw only tiny patterns of distant ships. Still, she was dimly aware of their shock, of their gasps of horror and amazement.

  “Shit, I've never seen so many! There must be thousands!”

  “It's the big one!” Pancho cried faintly. “It's happening just as Stella said it would. General Loran is fighting this All-Mother!”

  “And getting his ass smashed!” said a high-pitched voice. “Hey, did you see that? Six or seven of the Emper
or's ships just—”

  No, Stella cried. It can't be! Unknowingly, she clutched a console before her.

  “Stella,” Pancho said, “what's wrong? Are you all right?” Dimly, she heard George and others express concern.

  “Leave me be,” she said, “all of you.” She focused on the battle, praying that Loran's plan would work.

  It didn't. The next two hours, in the All-Mother's grasp, she watched and heard five million comrades die. The ships perished singly and in groups, during gallant charges and from behind. A spidery network of tracers spanned an area that must have been twenty-five kilometers across. The plasma jets and laser beams of her comrades challenged the superior weapons of the enemy, and were destroyed.

  See Stella, all this is for you. Is this not a beautiful death song I have spun for your comrades? Is it not glorious?

  For a moment Stella saw it almost as the All-Mother did, as if she were, in fact, inside her enemy. The glittering, radiating tracers did look like a web, a web of singing death spun by a titanic, peerless artist. And yes, it was lovely, glorious beyond description.

  No. It was ugly. And she hated the All-Mother!

  The All-Mother withdrew but more confidently than before, a lover who was slowly winning Stella over. As Stella watched, a group of Imperial ships in the rear pulled away and started to flee. They were pursued immediately by enemy vessels.

  “Comandante,” a gruff voice said, “I think they're finished.”

  “General Loran and his protectors,” Pancho's voice said. “Mother of God, they never had a chance.”

  Do you see what I give you, my Stella? the All-Mother sang in Stella's mind, her voice sweeping everything away so that there were only the two groups of ships-the one fleeing, the other growing ever closer.

  Searing light. Blinding explosions. Borne on lightning wings to the scene, Stella saw a massive hull ripped free and bodies spewed into space. Hundreds of them-some in spacesuits, far more who were not, men and women who must have died instantly. And coming her way...

  So close she could have reached out and touched them, two figures drifted past. One was Regent-Protector Malek; the other, General Ulysses Narraganset Loran. Malek was already dead, his eyes bulging like marbles. Just behind him, General Loran struggled feebly to seal his helmet, his handsome features contorted behind his faceplate. Stella saw his gloved, bloodstained fingers paw weakly at his throat, then fall away. Slowly, they rose again.

  As if the All-Mother had willed it, the helmet was torn off, and Stella saw the General's distinguished features explode into gore in the vacuum of space. Loran's hands fell lifeless and he drifted away, becoming smaller and smaller until he was only a speck of debris lit by star shine and the blaze of artillery.

  Shuddering, Stella covered her eyes, trying to blot out the terrible carnage. The All-Mother would not permit her to escape. Ship after ship after ship erupted and died, and as Stella dug her hands into the console, the last feeble resistance of the Empire winked out one by one in brilliant bursts of metal until nothing remained except the untouched hordes of the enemy.

  In their center hovered a ship three times as large as the others. A ship she hadn't been permitted to see until this final, climactic moment.

  The All-Mother's ship.

  Are you ready? The All-Mother's whisper caressed her mind. Are you ready for the last dance of all, my Stella? The Dance of Death?

  “Last dance, All-Mother,” she said and woke up.

  * * * *

  They were all staring at her. George, Brett, Pancho, and a dozen others. Jason, she recalled, had not been permitted on the bridge.

  “Stella,” George said urgently, “what is it?”

  She stiffened and looked at their stricken faces, which reminded her of Loran's before he'd died.

  “It's time,” she told them.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  La Libertad's armor room was ten meters long, little wider than a closet, and the armor itself hung from rusted pegs in open lockers. Stella found it hard to imagine these pirates ever boarding another vessel to take it over. Yet Powers assured her Pancho was adept at his craft, and that his crew had clambered onto more than one trader and merchant scug. Smile as she might at his seeming ineptness, she could not ignore the fact he was also a ruthless and efficient leader.

  By the time others arrived, all she needed was to have her comm leads connected. George and Brett seemed to have other things in mind, though, for they started to suit up.

  “What do you two think you're doing?” she said.

  Brett turned, her face drawn. “We're going with you.”

  “What? Oh no, you're not. The All-Mother just wants me.”

  “You might need us,” George said.

  “Don't you remember what you just saw? Thanks to the All-Mother, I saw it all a thousand times better than you!” She raised her fist. “Our army is dead and the same will happen to you if you attempt to board her ship. So stay here.”

  Other crew packed into the narrow room, an incongruous mixture of pirates and Stella's comrades. She saw them head to their lockers, begin putting on armor.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  They all froze, looking at her. Most of them still appeared stunned after watching the recent battle.

  “Let's get sensible, people,” she said. “Our enemy won't permit this ship to get within range. The All-Mother wants me to use the shuttle pod, which can only carry six persons. Maybe it can stretch to eight or nine, but I count over forty here.”

  George touched her shoulder. “Then you can take eight of us.”

  She jerked away. “No. I don't want you. You'd just get in the way. Besides, the All-Mother only wants me.”

  Brett reached into Stella's helmet to connect her comm leads. “You can't be sure. We could be the difference that counts.”

  Stella turned away. “You don't know what you're saying. You'd only get killed. You have to stay here!”

  Brett moved forward, her eyes bright and insistent. “Please, Stella, let's not end it like this. Let's finish it the way we started. Together.”

  Stella returned her gaze. “First Contact Heroes, Brett?”

  “Yes.” Brett smiled sadly. “There's just you, me, and George left now. But we still gotta stick together, right?”

  “That is right,” George insisted. “Like Brett said, you don't know for sure that we can't help. Who knows-we could make the difference.”

  Stella sighed, realizing they wouldn't listen. “All right,” she conceded. “You two go with me.” She scanned the room. “Who else wants to go?”

  Immediately, everyone raised their hands and shouted eagerly. It was a sight she had never imagined: her crew and these scruffy pirates united by a common cause.

  “Please, Stella,” Pancho said, pressing forward. “Take me.”

  “I can't,” she smiled, not wanting him to die. “You're going to be too valuable in my new administration. Besides, if my mission fails, you'll have to take over and keep these people alive.”

  She looked at all the upraised hands. She didn't want any of them to die. “I can't take all of you,” she said. She pointed at random, choosing four pirates as well. “You and you and...”

  “Me,” a voice said.

  She turned her head. Jason stood in the room, his jaw thrust out.

  “I'm going too,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Oh no, you're not.”

  “You'll have to stop me, Stella,” Jason said, “and by God, you'll have to kill me to do that.” He turned and went to his locker.

  She moved toward him in hot fury. She would not let—

  George caught her hand. “Stella,” he said, “let him come.”

  She glared at him, and then watched as two female pirates in leather shorts and halters helped Jason suit up. Yes, she thought bitterly, it would be women, and half-naked ones at that.

  “All right,” she said. “It
doesn't make any difference anyway.”

  * * * *

  After a tearful, clinging embrace from Pancho, Stella managed to board La Libertad's tiny, much-dented shuttle pod. The pilot, a female pirate, waited till they were all securely seated, then fired the retros that thrust them into space.

  “Stella,” George said, “are you sure we'll be able to board? You seem to feel the All-Mother will practically invite us on.”

  “Remember the Slug ship, George?” she said. “The one with the extended boarding tube?”

  “Oh,” George said. “I see.”

  “I miss Myles,” Brett murmured.

  “For me it's Carol,” George said heavily. “Somehow it's not the same without her cussing and dressing me down all the time. I never realized I actually liked it.”

  “We miss all of them,” Stella said. “All the comrades we've lost.”

  They nodded, looked down at their hands as the pod streaked on.

  “Loran Base was the first time we'd ever been together,” Brett said a minute later. “We always spoke casually before.” She sighed behind her faceplate. “Myles was a good kisser, held me like I was part of his body. I wish...”

  Before them, space stretched into infinity. Stella gazed out the small plexiport at the front of the pod. “How far to the battle's epicenter?” she called.

  “Almost sixty thousand kilometers,” the pilot called, checking a gauge. “It should take nearly an hour. You'll have to direct me when I get close.”

  “I will,” Stella answered.

  Two seats to her left, Jason leaned toward her. “Forgive me,” he said.

  She turned. Jason's eyes were fixed on her face.

  “Never,” she said.

  “Stella,” George said, “we'll probably all be dead in a short while.”

  She leaned back. “If that's what it takes.”

  Silence, then George's voice. “At some level you're enjoying this, aren't you? You've got your chance to be a martyr and raise the cross at your own crucifixion. Hell, you can even drive the nails in yourself.”