STAR'S HONOR (THE STAR SCOUT SAGA Book 3)

by GARY DARBY

  Dason scratched his head, straightened and pointed at the device. “We’ve tried all the ideas that you heard those scientists discuss, and we got nothing.”

  Stretching his aching back, he muttered angrily, “Why couldn’t the Mongans make it simple, like one button with a sign that says, ‘press here, dummy’ to turn it on?”

  “Maybe they did,” Alena answered, “and we just don’t know how to read the sign.”

  “Maybe,” Dason growled. “What I wouldn’t give for the equivalent of a Mongan sensator about now.”

  He began to run one hand over an edge of the device when he gave a start and ran his hand back over the same place. Holding himself still, Dason reached out and ran a finger over the grooves on a second side, and then the last side.

  “Alena,” he said in an excited voice, “give me your hand.”

  Alena stepped next to Dason and held out her hand. He pressed a finger over the metallic rim and ran it back and forth several times. “What do you feel?” he asked.

  “Very slight grooves,” she said. “The same as we noticed before. What of it?’

  “Right,” Dason answered. “Now, while you’re running a finger over these grooves, stretch out your other hand and move a finger over another set of grooves.”

  Alena reached out, running her finger the edge while looking at Dason with as questioning expression. “Now do the third side,” he directed.

  She reached over and repeated the process, narrowing her eyes as she slid her finger back and forth. “Can’t you feel it?” Dason asked in an excited voice. “There’s a pattern!”

  In answer, she once again traced her fingers over each side. Then her eyes grew wide and she gasped, “Two sides have wide, narrow, wide, the other has narrow, wide, narrow.”

  “Right,” Dason answered.

  “But what does it mean?” Alena questioned. “And how did we miss that before? It was right in front of us.”

  “I’m not sure,” Dason commented, “but you don’t machine small grooves like that into metal for no reason. Something tells me it’s significant and I’ve got this gnawing feeling that I’ve seen the pattern before, but where?”

  Alena nodded and ran her hand over the nearest side again. “I know what you mean; they do seem familiar in some way as if . . . as if . . .”

  Her face trailed off as she continued to run her hand over the cool metal, almost caressing it as if she could make it speak and divulge its secret.

  Suddenly, she jerked her hand up as if the metal had suddenly turned scorching hot. “Wide, narrow, wide,” she said in a low intense voice, “wide, narrow, wide again, and then narrow, wide, narrow.”

  She whirled around and grabbed Dason by the shoulders. “Dason, of course! The neck bands on the Mongans!”

  Dason’s eyes went wide, and his mouth sagged open. He snapped his fingers. “The grooves in the metal match their rings!”

  “Okay, okay,” Alena said in haste, “the grooves match their neck markings, but where does that get us?”

  Dason paced several steps before he said, “Think back, on the AP planet, didn’t it seem to you that one of the Mongans appeared to be just a bit more vocal, slightly more active than the others?”

  Alena got a far off look in her eyes before she snapped her fingers. “Narrow, wide, narrow—the odd combination.”

  Dason nodded his head in agreement. “That’s what I remember, too. Could it be that that’s our ‘press here, dummy’ sign? Meaning the more dominant Mongan is also the controller of the device.”

  “Like a living key that unlocks the combination!” Alena gushed.

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Dason agreed.

  Both stepped to the side with the three corresponding symbols. Alena said, “But there are three indentations. Which do we press first?”

  Dason stared at the three indents before he reached out and took the sphere. “What if,” he murmured and ran his hand over the smooth orb until he found what he sought.

  His smile widened at Alena. “Three indents,” he announced, “all narrow.”

  “So what does that mean?” Alena questioned. “Do we press all narrow grooves at the same time, or one at a time, or . . .”

  They locked eyes, neither speaking until Alena murmured, “What if there’s some kind of fail-secure feature—”

  “And,” Dason breathed low, “I enter the combination incorrectly—”

  “It could lock us out—permanently,” Alena groaned. “Not to mention that we may never be able to open it again without the correct reset combination. Even with just nine grooves the possible combinations are—”

  “A really, really huge number,” Dason grimaced.

  The two stared at each other, agonizing over their decision. “We just can’t leave them in there . . .” Dason whispered.

  “Or can we?” Alena wondered. “It could be that whatever process the Mongans use is benign.”

  “But what if it’s not!?” Dason sharply answered.

  Alena reached out, touched Dason’s shoulder. “Easy scout, I’m on your side here, remember?”

  “Sorry,” Dason mumbled and ran a hand through his hair, rubbing at his neck to try and release some of the tension. “It’s just that I don’t see the Mongans really caring if their device hurts anyone or not.”

  “True,” Alena affirmed. “They aren’t exactly the Mother Theresa type are they? Still, they use it apparently so there must be some sort of safeguards in place.”

  “Yes,” Dason agreed, “but I’m thinking the Mongans only use it to transport from one location to another. The way that Tor’al described what he saw was that this more like somehow storing organic material.”

  “Stasis,” Alena mused. “You’re thinking that it places a person in a form of stasis. Alive but not exactly living.”

  “Right,” Dason replied.

  “And the question,” Alena pondered as she chewed on a thumbnail, “is how long could the human body remain in such a state without harm?”

  She let out a long sigh. “In all honesty, Dason, I’m way out of my league here. I’m not the sharpest blade in the scabbard, but I’m not the dullest either and this is way beyond me.”

  “Me too,” Dason replied, nodding slowly. “But I just can’t shake the feeling that we’ve got to do something and now, or we might lose them.”

  “Are you sure?” Alena asked. “Another six hours or so and we arrive at Epsilon. After that, the brainy types can take what we’ve got and run with it with all their fancy gee-whiz equipment.”

  She gestured toward the device. “I mean, I’m certain that we’re on to something here, I’m just not convinced that we know what to do about it.”

  “My Scoutmaster once said,” Dason replied, “that nothing terrifies a team more than a leader who can’t make a decision and so never terrify your team.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “They’re my team, it’s my decision.”

  With a bit of a trembling hand, knowing that he could well be condemning his friends to death, he reached out and touched the two narrow recess on one side of the device.

  Reaching to his left, he pressed the smaller notch, and did the same to the right. He held the ball in his hand, swallowed, and said with a sideways glance at Alena, “Are you ready for this?”

  Alena shook her head from side to side. “No,” she stated in a breathless voice, “but do it before the suspense kills us both.”

  With a trembling finger, Dason pressed the middle button on the sphere and then the left and finally the one on the right.

  In an instant, a bluish glow formed above the oval. It grew and shimmered until it was taller than the two of them.

  It levitated to the side and floated just above the floor. For a moment, it seemed to solidify and a single figure formed inside the gleaming ball.

  The bubble hung for a second and then in an instant disappeared, letting the young woman who had seemed to float in midair drop to the floor.

  Daso
n rushed over and pulled Shanon into his arms. “She’s alive!” he shouted to Alena. “Get Doctor Stinneli!”

  Alena rushed from the room while Dason held Shanon close, rocking her almost like a baby. She took a deep breath and shivered, her shudders racking her body.

  Opening her eyes, Shanon had a hard time focusing before she was able to look up into Dason’s face with a dawning recognition. Whispering, she asked, “Dason?”

  “Yes” he replied, his voice choking so hard that it came out as a raspy croak, “it’s me.”

  “It’s so cold in here,” she mumbled. “Why is it so cold?”

  Dason pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. He leaned his face down to press gentle lips to hers. “Maybe this will warm you up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Star date: 2443.088

  Aboard the A’Cilles, the Sha’anay Flagship

  Sailing majestically through the interstellar night, the great Sha’anay flagship A’Cilles was attended by dozens upon dozens of Sha’anay warships that surrounded her in a metallic ring of both grace and power.

  From far-flung stars and planetary systems they had come to this one spot.

  The Gathering had begun.

  However, today was not a day of greeting new and old friends as befitted a Gathering. No, today was a Day of Remembrance for those who had begun their Last Journey.

  On the A’Cilles, the first of many Remembrances was about to begin and the Great Hall was still and solemn.

  At a mournful chime, the gathering of Sha’anay parted, leaving a broad opening down the multitude’s middle. Warriors stood rank upon rank according to their respective Houses, the front rows being of A’kan’s and Mo’sar’s fellow clansmen.

  Each wore the vibrant colors of their House and clan, and the warriors had drawn their swords and crossed them upon their chests. Their eyes bore straight ahead; no sound came from their tight lips.

  At one end of the solemn assembly stood the Star Scout team. At the front of their formation, in the place of honor, stood General Rosberg, Scoutmaster Tarracas, and Dason.

  Dason didn’t quite understand why he stood with the two senior and ranking scouts, only that Rosberg had ordered him to do so. The scouts stood at parade rest, arms behind backs, palms out and flat against the small of the back.

  Carried by the clan’s elders, the bodies of the two brave Sha’anay, adorned in the Robes of Passing, entered the Great Hall, and in a slow procession began to pass in front of the Star Scouts.

  General Rosberg came to attention, did an about-face, and ordered, “Scouts. Atten-shun!” As one, the scouts came to full attention, their bodies straight and rigid, and their boot heels snapping together.

  General Rosberg did another about-face and with his head turned to one side ordered over his shoulder, “Pree-sent, arms!”

  The scouts snapped their right hands up in a perfect salute, fingertips brushing against the right eyebrow, eyes staring straight ahead.

  With slow and deliberate steps, the elders marched past the scouts. After the funeral procession had passed, Rosberg brought the scouts to order arms but held them at attention.

  Then the elders and the bodies of A’kan and Mo’sar began to pass the gathered Sha’anay clans. At a gesture from the respective clan elders, each warrior clanged his swords together three times in respectful salute to the fallen.

  Intermixed in the ranks of fighters were those of the clan who had not taken up the warrior tradition, the young, and those too old to carry on in the warrior tradition.

  Unlike Imperium citizens, both male and female, who often wore dark colors at memorial services, the Sha’anay adorned themselves in silken robes of bright colors and vibrantly colored stones that gleamed and blazed in the light.

  As the bodies passed, those who did not carry swords crossed their arms together and then opened them wide and head high, their way of showing respect and remembrance.

  The procession continued until it reached a large airlock. The attending elders laid the two bodies on the airlock floor and stepped back inside the great hall.

  From the front of the gathering, Kur’al stepped forward and in a firm voice said in Sha’anay, “Honored in life, honored in death, grieve we not for a life well lived, but grieve we must and will for the loss of a friend.”

  With that, he ordered the airlock’s closing. The A’Cilles accelerated for a brief time; the outer airlock door opened and the decompression sent the two bodies out of the cubicle to travel forever among the stars.

  Rosberg spun about and directed, “Scoutmaster Tarracas, Lieutenant Renn, Scout Thorne, you’re with me. The rest of the scout company is dismissed and will return to the IntrepidX.”

  With Brant, Dason fell in behind General Rosberg and Scoutmaster Tarracas. With a heavy heart, Dason couldn’t help but think that, in the space of just a few days, he had attended two memorial services, the one for A’kan and Mo’sar here on the A’Cilles, and the other for Bianca on Epsilon.

  Though the services were quite different in many aspects, the one similarity was that both funerals had honored valiant and courageous souls.

  After several minutes of walking in silence, Dason turned to Brant and whispered, “Sir, do you know where we’re going?”

  Brant shook his head and muttered low, “You’re guess is as good as mine, but I think we’re headed for a meeting with some Sha’anay bigwigs.”

  Rosberg said over his shoulder, “You think right, lieutenant. We’re meeting with the three Sha’anay caretakers, so both of you be on your best behavior and leave the talking to the Scoutmaster and me.”

  He stopped and said in pointed terms, “In other words, don’t speak unless we give you the okay, but if you do, no shading of the truth, understood? We’ve been totally up front with these people, and I intend for that to continue.”

  Dason and Brant both gave quick nods and followed the general and the Scoutmaster down the wide hall.

  They turned a corner and came to a stop in front of a large door that had two Sha’anay standing guard with drawn swords held stiff and crossed across their chests. Neither moved to let the human party enter the council’s chamber or even acknowledge their presence.

  Rosberg said in a small voice, “Appears that we are to wait.”

  Just as he finished speaking, the door slid aside. Ku’ral motioned for the four to follow him. He led them into the council room and motioned for them to wait once inside.

  Climbing the stairs to the dais, Ku’ral took his place between Am’nol, and Lor’ak. As before, the loud chime sounded, and the Korha’pec marched in to take their seats.

  Ku’ral took a step forward and said, “Human Rosberg, please name the two newcomers.”

  Rosberg gave a quick, tiny bow and held out a hand toward Dason and Brant. “Honored Sha’anay elders, this is Star Scout Lieutenant Brant Renn, and Star Scout Dason Thorne, esteemed warriors of my House and clan.

  “Both have fought beside your brave warriors against those who would do us both harm. Ki’mi Som’al has reported to you of the efforts of our scouts on the A’Gesi. Elder Tor’al named Scout Thorne as friend and clansman.

  “And I am given to understand that the novice El’am reported to you that our warriors fought bravely to save Elder Tor’al on Marsten’s World.”

  “And failed!” To’ran growled from his seat.

  Rosberg whirled in Tor’an’s direction, his face and voice hot in retort to Tor’an’s accusation. “But not without trying! And not without cost, To’ran!”

  “Tor’an,” Ku’ral ground out, “we have heard the testimony of El’am. We have agreed that we find no dishonor or false claim in the account.”

  To’ran stood and addressed Ku’ral, “Be that as it may. Still, Tor’al remains a captive, and we remain without a leader because of the humans.”

  Ku’ral leaned forward, his unblinking eyes centered on To’ran. “You remind the council of that which we already know, To’ran. And I would tell you
that Tor’al, esteemed though he may be, is but one that may be considered for Grand Elder.”

  The rebuke was evident and To’ran drew in a deep breath before muttering, “I beg the council’s pardon. This is a hard matter for my House and me.”

  “As it should be,” Ku’ral replied. “And that is why we are gathered and have asked the humans to join us. Have your people discussed the matter regarding the latest information? Have you come to a decision?”

  To’ran stood mute for several seconds, in appearance unwilling and loathe to deliver the news that he brought. Working his mouth as if the words themselves carried a bad taste, he said, “The House of Tor’al agrees to wait, but our patience has a limit.”

  He turned and took several steps toward Rosberg. “Hear and remember it as if a laser blade had seared it into your memory, human Rosberg. The House of Tor’al will sound the Call to War three times.

  “The first will be in ten u’tage, ten of your days, the second call, ten u’tage after that, and the third, ten u’tage later.

  “That is the time it will take to gather the entire House. If Tor’al has not been returned to us by then, the House of Tor’al will answer the Call to War.

  “But it will not be against the evil ones, but against those among you who would make war against us.”

  He drew himself to his full height. “This is the mind and will of Tor’al’s House.” He whirled and stomped with heavy footfalls to his seat.

  Ku’ral took a step back to stand between his companion caretakers. He mumbled something to each of them, to which they nodded assent and then said, “Will the Korha’pec sustain the House of Tor’al in this matter?”

  All of the Sha’anay raised a hand signifying that they accepted and supported the decision of Tor’al’s House.

  Dason glanced sideways at Brant. He returned Dason’s look with raised eyebrows that creased his forehead. Thirty days, they had thirty days to avert war with the Sha’anay.

  Ku’ral gestured with one hand toward Rosberg. “Human Rosberg, you have heard To’ran and the council. This is our judgment; this is our law, this is our way. There is no more to be said.”