Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

by Gregory Faccone

  His father and Aristahl were having a hushed conversation by the flyer. Kord looked over as Jordahk and his mother approached.

  "Why don't you two take a minute?" Vittora asked, relieving Jordahk of his bags and keeping on toward the flyer.

  "Was it another dream?" Kord asked.

  "Yes." Jordahk looked down and closed his eyes for a second. "Dard, am I ready for this?"

  "Son..." Not used to that word, Jordahk looked up as Kord knew he would. "To see who you really are, and what you can really do, one must venture outward."

  Jordahk thought about it, then nodded.

  Kord glanced over his shoulder toward Aristahl then dug into a pocket at his thigh.

  "Might as well take these with you," he said a little too casually.

  Jordahk looked down at the eight-sided cylinders his father held and his jaw clenched.

  Autobuss legacy shells.

  "You know how I came across them," Kord whispered, glancing around out of habit. "Impenetrable as the vault may be, it's no longer secret. I could bury these, but what good would that accomplish?"

  "But I don't have an autobuss."

  "So you've said. But what about tomorrow? Or next month? Look, I don't know their exact function, but they're powerful. They were poised next to the entrance for quick use. If there's a chance they can get you through some future jam..."

  Jordahk's palms began to sweat. What did he fear? Burning out his mind? The unknown? The dreadful misuse of power? Light from the cabin did not glint off the shells. Their composition was like Wixom's compy bracelet, a matte finish that looked and felt more like ceramic. This highest-end stuff was out of his league, perhaps out of anyone's league this side of the Ajurian Realm.

  His father knew how dangerous they were, yet he was offering them, patiently standing there palm open, dark and light shells waiting. Jordahk didn't feel worthy of that trust, yet his heart would break if he stood there another second not taking what his father offered in the powerful spirit of man-to-man.

  Scooping them both, and gripping them tightly, his eyes went wide at the warring sensations that flooded through him.

  "Giga-whoa." It took a couple of seconds to sort it out. "The light one's tremendous. Like some sort of space-bending freecell." Scientum atomic cells were the common power source alternative to the more sought-after mystic freecell.

  "Energetic, isn't it?"

  "The darker one—" Jordahk's face scrunched. It felt like it had two sides, neither willing to be controlled. He didn't want to open his hand to look at it.

  "Watch yourself with that one, it's a killer."

  Jordahk stuffed them in his pocket. Soon, they would be placed at the bottom of his sling bag, and Max would have orders once again to never present them.

  They forearm bumped.

  "Don't use our gifts without care... like I did," Kord said. He rubbed his leg for a second. "And remember what I said about a threat being more than initial appearances." Then his spirits lifted. "But the bright side is, someone may underestimate you."

  A group of relatively new Perigeum worlds, all annexed during the war, were located far from the Six Sisters. But within the sphere of an egress network, such distances meant little. Only the most backwater worlds, far from the nearest egress, were really isolated. And few cared about them.

  Among the new protectorates was the least populated egressed world, the original population having evacuated long ago against the unstoppable tide of Perigeum usurpation. They ventured farther out into the stars, bringing with them ideals that would form the backbone of the Asterfraeo. A powerful order was among them, perhaps even strong enough to have made the Perigeum Starmada reconsider the cost of taking the planet.

  For they were advanced in the ways of mystic, and to them it was more than a technology. It was a way of understanding and interacting with the universe. But they were independent and individualistic to be sure. United by principles and new insights, they disagreed on whether to make a stand or seek peaceful pastures afar-off. Eventually, the planet that birthed a new technology, that birthed a most powerful caste, was abandoned by those who subdued it.

  But Numen didn't flourish after the native population moved on. The Sojourners left their mark: a seal of their disapproval.

  High above the planet, on the surface of its near moon, was Perigeum Starmada Archiver Research Station Alpha. But to most who knew anything about it, it was simply referred to as "The Repository." It was one of the largest bases that exclusively used grav weaves. Those who resided within could make as many as they needed, though most thought it beneath them.

  The nondescript facility was a tall polygon rising out of the dusty moon's surface like a monolith. It grew steadily larger from bottom to top as each level claimed more space than the one below.

  Within the highest levels, a slightly hunched man shuffled, seemingly absentmindedly. He passed a wall of crystal panes, which framed the dingy brown and yellow crescent of the nearby world. Everything about the man was a lie, be it posture, gait, or apparent incoherency. Only the disfigurement of varicose veins on his neck and head were real. Sharp, ever-thinking eyes took in the scene outside.

  Numen wasn't a pretty planet. More accurately, Numen was no longer a pretty planet. The infamous Draconem Battle had left it scared. The uninformed might also say it was cursed, but the informed knew otherwise. Although, perhaps it was merely semantics.

  What's the difference between a curse and an invisible techno-plague?

  They had worked there since the war ended. Regular Perigeum Starmada units were anxious to relinquish control once they experienced the world's scientum-destroying taint. The Archivers of that time were happy to take over, actively led by their powerful and enigmatic leader. Retaining the egress was a challenge. They called upon every scrap of influence. Helping their cause was Starmada High Command. They seemed reluctant to pull out of a system that had cost them so much to gain. The political types were also eager for a public relations victory, albeit hollow.

  Few in the Starmada have brains anymore. And certainly the dolts who originally took Numen thought quantity could overcome mystic quality. Lucky for them, the Sojourners gave it up.

  Over the first few decades of Archiver control over Numen, a relatively short amount of time in a lifetime therapy society, a steady trickle of advancements for the fleet and biologics for key politicians were produced. At that time, few other top-notch candidate systems for an egress manifested, which also worked in the Archivers' favor. Eventually, the Perigeum Starmada accepted their Numen base as a sort of eccentric R&D division.

  We are that and much more, proxies.

  The Archivers stayed within budget, because they had secret sources of revenue, and managed the mining operations throughout the system. It helped offset the planet's inability to be colonized. The Perigeum got their coin's worth in the end, especially in recent years as mystic/scientum hybrid technology finally matured.

  The great scar of Numen, blackened and burnt, was clearly visible from its moon. Two hundred years later, the area still couldn't be coaxed into sustaining life.

  A shuttle came into view, arcing down silently toward the planet. The newest hybrid model. At least they lasted long enough to justify their expense.

  A drakking expensive way to colonize a planet!

  The Perigeum didn't build fully mystic ships—only the staryard at Numen had that capability—but now they were laying the latest hybrid hulls, thanks to the Archivers, of course.

  Technology transfers paid the bills and allowed them to gain influence. Sedge Braksaw was a criminal, but he wielded power at Magnus Cemtar. They had sent a large number of Archiver imprimaturs to aid in ship construction. It spread their manpower thin, and exposed certain technologies, but the upside was his famed Umbria Magnus yards surreptitiously laying hybrid hulls strictly for Archiver use. It freed up the Numen staryard for more interesting all-mystic projects.

  A tone sounded, but he didn't need mundane technol
ogy to sense the massive spatial bridge that just formed. Though not visible from his vantage, he knew the egress had just synced. Indeed, an edge of the telltale glowing sphere of energetic particles entered the vista, before fading.

  He continued on with his faux shuffle, entered an office, and passed through two more secure hatches. He did many things to gain access. Actions scientum-only proxies would never understand. Even an imprimatur would die trying to reach this chamber.

  It was roughly spherical. Bands of all seven platinum group metals had been contorted into unpredictable, grotesque angles to form the walls. Rare, purplish numenium was twisted into the patchwork in token quantities.

  In the exact center of the chamber, a chair was raised on growing steps. The oversized, almost thrown-like device had similar, misshapen platinum group construction. The man ascended to mount it.

  Teaching patience to a Prime Orator... I could sooner teach a proxy to make a grav weave!

  The room came alive with energies and fields. It began to glow, enkindled in red.

  Prime Orator Janus left the cacophony of the flag bridge behind as his command chair sank into armored quarters. Light and noise stopped as the circular opening contracted in halves and, below it, a shiny metal barrier closed like an iris. As he continued to descend, a third barrier comprised of intersecting slabs of granix closed above his head.

  His private chambers were a ship unto themselves and could shirk off shots that would fell a frigate. If such an escape was ever necessary, it would be too bad for the plebes, but someone had to rule them. Someone with enough sense to guide the insatiable, teetering, but powerful giant that was the Perigeum. Someone who still had drive and wasn't intent on throwing his life away in the endless social nexus.

  "Morons."

  He looked at the skin of his hands in the dim light. It was time for another rejuvenation. It irked him that mystic technology was needed to make right what was wrong with his flawed retta lifetime therapy. It took effort to separate mystic technology from the Sojourners of the past.

  A sudden, sharp memory of his father made his face scrunch, wrinkling his falsely youthful, tanned skin. He would seize any opportunity to even the score with the Sojourners. If not, he would surely see to it that their pet cause, the Asterfraeo, would pay.

  Mystic was in his service now. That must be remembered. He glanced about. The power of his mighty ship would soon be felt. Windbaggery master Braksaw had better be seeing to the delivery of hybrid power caps while the egress was synced at this stop. The man was a better ally than enemy, but Janus would lean on him if necessary to further the plan.

  The Archivers were a strange and secretive lot. And yes, dangerous. Few outside the office of Prime Orator knew how powerful the old dynasty actually was. Janus, politically savvy for many decades, was still shocked at the private briefing given to him by his predecessor. The Perigeum Starmada military ranks assigned to high level Archivers were for show, useful mostly for maintaining chain of command and keeping the fleet plebes in line.

  The real power behind that most peculiar branch was an even stranger group of seven. They insisted on anonymity, and when they called, it was best to answer. While no one was superior to the Prime Orator, it was wise to treat these mysterious, long-lived characters with respect. He didn't like it, but he liked being without their technological edge even less.

  He removed a platinum ring from a hidden inner pocket. It had been passed to him by the former First Orator, who seemed all too eager to be rid of it. Now into his second term, Janus understood. When he placed it on his finger, a complex protocol was initiated. He didn't understand it, nor would anybody in the squadron. The ensuing unease was not a feeling Prime Orators experienced often.

  The chamber vibrated and grew dimmer, although the level of illumination had not changed. It was as if wavelengths of light and their interaction with the mind were being toyed with.

  Let's not get paranoid.

  A transmission, routed through synced egresses, bypassed light years of cold space. A trimensional image began forming across the chamber. It seemed larger than the enclosure could accommodate. It had sharp angles and scales that coalesced into the head of a green dragon. It wavered as if viewed through intense heat. The head sported black horns and white, jagged teeth arranged in a sinister and permanent Cheshire smile. It talked, but its mouth didn't move.

  "Good evening, Prime Orator Janus." Its voice was slick and intimidating.

  "Is it evening on Numen?" Janus asked. "So what does the Dragon wish to confer with me about? I've little time for a conference."

  "Orator Braksaw is quite hastily making arrangements to procure hybrid power caps for your flagship. I hope you're finding the improvements we shared to your satisfaction."

  Janus had stopped wondering how these Archiver elite knew all the things they did. It seemed there was no network they couldn't penetrate, no encrypted datalattice they couldn't crack.

  "Yes, the ship-cannon was impressive. But apparently you left a few of the final bugs to be sorted out by that blunt instrument Braksaw."

  "Why not return to Umbria Magnus? I'll send some technicians to work out the kinks for you."

  So that was it. The Dragon had picked up on his seemingly strange fleet deployments. Combined with the push to continue headlong into space with a damaged ship, he had to know something was up.

  "I have plans."

  "I trust you're not doing anything, hasty, Prime Orator."

  Janus quelled a spike of irritation. Perhaps elite Archivers could while away the decades tinkering in some dusty lab. They could experiment with full funding for years over a dead planet. But the Prime Orator had only three short terms to accomplish his goals, build his legacy, and ensure a personal fortune. Eighteen years wasn't a lot of time. More than that would require becoming the power behind the power, like Braksaw at Magnus Cemtar.

  "Don't give me that drak," Janus spat. "You were on board for Adams Rush. It didn't fail because we were hasty. In fact, if you're vaunted squadron of hybrid frigates were more involved in space operations, perhaps—"

  "I don't think our plans were at fault, Prime Orator," the Dragon said icily. "Even we can't anticipate the very unlikely."

  "Sojourners, you mean."

  "Indeed. Rest assured, my commodore in charge of that operation is being duly punished. I may eliminate him if he serves no further purpose."

  He spoke with great authority, and it was true that he wielded it. But Janus knew there was one higher than the Dragon in their strange pecking order, one with whom he had never communicated. The mysterious first of their little ruling ring, a leader who disappeared for decades at a time. Janus's predecessor had spoken to him. He had mentioned it briefly as a strange and belittling experience, something he was grateful only occurred once.

  As for things going wrong, Janus understood the power of a scapegoat. Gaston Canterbury was artificial and vain in every way, yet he was predictable and reliable to toe the official line. But the media had to bear some blame, and his career was a ready sacrifice. The rest had to be borne by the Starmada. The breaking of Field Commander Xammetrix was supposedly a great potential loss. Oh well. Likely, he wouldn't last the year.

  "Let's not quibble," Janus said. "We both have interest in the Asterfraeo."

  "Yes, you need to rape the resources of an industrialized planet."

  Something inside Janus snapped. He wouldn't be talked to that way. "And you need answers to an ancient techno-plague your vaunted Archivers have not been able to crack in two hundred years." The green dragon stood silent, and Janus knew he had made a point. "That's right, even a proxy like me knows the legend of the Thule-Riss Hold on Adams Rush. And it's not like your commodore was subtle."

  The Dragon was secure in his underhanded power and personal ability, but Janus was secure in the vast forces he commanded, and he wouldn't be antagonized. The entire Perigeum Starmada could be brought down on Numen. Not even their mystic trickery could save them from t
hat. But who would benefit? No one except the weird mystic troublemakers out in the Asterfraeo and beyond.

  Their meddling during the Egress Incident was costly. He needed more fire to fight theirs. His new ship was a start. But Janus also needed his own mystic makers and operatives, as self-serving as they were, to counter the strange, growing threat.

  The Dragon broke his long silence. "You're looking a little wrinkled, Prime Orator. I surmise you need a reviction ravelen. Hmm... a rare procedure." The Dragon's head seemed to turn, taking on an evil cast. "I do hope you can find an imprimatur you can trust."

  Damn it. How did he find out? Drakking Archivers!

  A prime orator could crush a planet, but it might get him a knife in the back.

  "Whatever you're planning," the Dragon continued, his sinister voice rumbling, "be prepared this time for the asymmetrical attacks our kind can bring down upon your head."

  An old ship slipped through the Asterfraeo at speeds almost practical, thanks to Manifold Dipole Hyperplane Distortion. But that term was mostly relegated to technical circles. "MDHD" was used among starkeelwrights and imprimaturs. Everyone else just called it "downhill drive."

  Regardless of labeling, the effects from within were the same. A dark maw of space curving toward nothingness was generated in front of the ship. It gave way to coruscating colors. During cruise, they manifested in the cooler end of the spectrum. They continued on past the ship, merging into the white "hill" being induced behind. The colors were only interrupted by bending streaks of opaque white. Their cause or significance was yet to be found.

  On the bridge of the timeworn ship, which Max generously called a bus, two men reclined in side-by-side command stations. The chamber was more pilot pod than classic bridge. There was room for only two command couches with the active surface viewport barely a couple meters before them.

  "This ship makes the Monte Crest look like a starliner," Jordahk said.